


What's It Gonna Be?

by zeldasayre



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - What's It Gonna Be (music video), Butch/Femme, Cheerleaders, Drama Student Louis, F/F, Jock Harry Styles, Los Angeles, M/M, Not Actually a Girl Direction Fic But a One Direction Fic With Wlw In It So Close ?, listen. im a wlw who loves wlw and I want to write about wlw ok back off, music video fic, soft butch Bebe bc why not?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-05-05 22:29:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 37,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14628357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeldasayre/pseuds/zeldasayre
Summary: Louis looked thoughtful for a moment. “When are you meeting with Clare again?”“Thursday,” Bebe said, looking over at him, the ice clinking in her glass as she stirred it with a long spoon. “Why?”He grinned, narrowing his eyes. He took a long, dramatic pause, sipping his lemonade, and then said, “Scheming.”aka I've watched Shura's "What's It Gonna Be?" music video one too many times.((Or, Louis and Bebe, best friends since childhood, have crushes on two of the most popular kids in school, and in an attempt to increase their respective chances, Louis befriends Harry Styles, quarterback of the football team, while Bebe befriends Clare Uchima, head cheerleader. Only... the plan... doesn't go exactly as planned.))





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I just finished my senior project and so was finally free to write the gay cheerleader fic of my dreams. But I also wanted to write a What's It Gonna Be fic. So I'm doing both.
> 
> Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/user/12137986524/playlist/2DiRuoVsxMw8GlZiaaza2f?si=MLogtzOhS2Slfh9HfWeOeA

Louis and Bebe’s moms always thought they would end up together. They’d spent all their time around each other for as long as either of them could remember. Louis can even recall playing wedding— Bebe always refused to be the bride. And wouldn’t it have worked out nicely, like a square peg in a square hole, if they _did_ like each other. But alas.

“They’re not dating,” Bebe reassured Louis— or, more so, herself. “They’re definitely not dating. I have multiple sources that have said they’re not into each other.”

“And yet our chances remain at zero,” Louis said.

Bebe smacked his arm. Across the cafeteria, Harry let his head fall back in that obnoxious laughter of his. Bebe sighed forlornly. Louis scrunched up his nose. What she found attractive about that sound, he’d never understand.

Clare Uchima’s laugh, on the other hand. She wasn’t gracing the cafeteria with the gift of it just then, but she was beaming wide at whatever had made Harry laugh, and Louis gnawed on his lower lip, filled with want.

When she’d auditioned for the play, Louis almost thought the gods were granting him some long-yearned for favor. But she’d dropped out not two weeks into practices. Cheerleading and theater schedules, as it turns out, do not appease one another well.

“When Mrs. Glass gave that long pause after his name,” Bebe said. “I swear, I don’t know how I delude myself so intensely. I was one hundred percent convinced she was going to make us partners.”

“I’d kill to be in your shoes,” Louis said. Bebe had ended up partners with Clare. The universe was just too cruel.

“I told you I’ll switch if you want,” Bebe said.

“No, it’d be too obvious,” Louis said. “I don’t want her to think I’m totally desperate and pathetic.”

“Relationships built on the truth are the healthiest kind, Lou.”

“Shut up.”

Bebe had her script out on the table. She always carried them around with her during play seasons. Louis did it sometimes, too, but this semester they were doing _Grease_ — he was Danny, she Rizzo. He’d had every line memorized since he was about six years old. He wasn’t worried.

The bell rang, and he and Bebe walked out together, discarding their trays as they went.

“I want to cut my hair again,” Bebe said.

“Not another buzz cut, _please._ ”

“It wasn’t that bad! No, I just want it off my shoulders. I think I’ll go tomorrow. I hate having to tuck so much up in my wig.”

Louis glanced over at her to appraise the length of her white-blonde hair, and as he did, his shoulder slammed into something. He swiveled and felts his cheeks turn bright red as Clare Uchima raised her brows in surprise.

“Oh, I— I’m so sorry—” he said.

She grinned at him. “Don’t worry about it.”

She walked off, and he and Bebe stood as if nailed to the spot, staring after her.

“Well,” Bebe said.

“Kill me,” Louis said. He backed into the wall and slammed his hand into his chest. “O happy dagger—”

Bebe laughed loud and dragged him out of the cafeteria, singing “I Can Hear the Bells” as she went.

 

*

 

Bebe had stolen her Pink Ladies jacket out of the green room and was wearing it around campus like it belonged to her. She’d wonder how she got away with it, except that she did this every semester. Last spring, it was high-heeled boots from _Sweeney Todd_. In the fall, it was a _Newsies_ cap. The costume thieving coupled with the pranks she and Louis played on their castmates had resulted in more than a few threats from their director, Ms. Lonsdale, to kick Bebe (and Louis, though somewhat less often,) out of the plays and out of the theater department all together. The condition of their casting in _Grease_ was first strike, you’re out. Both of their understudies were insufferably smug.

The jacket was great, given Bebe’s daily wardrobe consisted almost entirely of crop tops or just straight up sports bras couples with track or sweat pants. Any time a teacher or other faculty member started to approach her with dress code damnation in their beady eyes, she zipped the jacket right up. They glared, but it worked.

She wore it now, zipped halfway because she was in Mrs. Helmore’s class, and that woman really thought it was 1942, or something. She’d given Bebe quite a few pink slips for clothing misdemeanors, but she was also ancient and didn’t know the pink slips didn’t do anything if she and the principal didn’t sign off for them. Bebe was making them into wallpaper.

She looked up just as Harry Styles slipped into the seat in front of her. He smiled as she met his gaze, frozen in place. “Hi, Bebe,” he said. “I love the jacket,” like she hadn’t been wearing it every day for weeks.

Her cheeks probably about the same shade as said jacket, she smiled and muttered a thank you that possibly only dogs could hear. Why couldn’t she talk to him like a normal person?

Because he was Harry Styles, that’s why. Quarterback— of course— with a face like a Victoria’s Secret Angel and the personality of a Labrador puppy, minus the biting. Or maybe not. Bebe didn’t know what he was into.

Pink in the face again at that thought, Bebe stared blankly at Mrs. Helmore, who had apparently asked her a question.

“Um,” Bebe said. “Yes.”

“The question was not yes or no, Miss Rexha.”

“Oh,” Bebe said. “Then… Spain. Green? The loss of innocence? Homoerotic undertones?”

Several students, Harry included, chuckled. Mrs. Helmore said, “Please try to pay attention, Miss Rexha,” and left it at that.

Immediately ignoring that request, Bebe looked out the window as Mrs. Helmore turned back to the whiteboard. The Southern California sunshine streamed in. She thought about all the young aspiring actresses in the US, like herself, who were staring out their classroom windows, probably wishing they were in LA. But here she was, less than an hour from the city— and what good would it do her? Why did she hold out hope for something so extraordinarily— statistically— unlikely to happen?

She looked at the back of Harry’s head again and sighed. She was wont to hold out hope, it seemed. Doomed to.

When she met Louis at her locker, she grinned. At least, if she was a hopeless hopeful, she wasn’t alone in it.

The two of them biked to Bebe’s house after practice. She buzzed her neighbor, Mr. Taylor, as always, to be let in. Even if her mom was home— which was unlikely— pigs would fly sooner than her apartment’s buzzer would be fixed.

Max, the singular white person who worked at the Chinese food place the next building over, had left their dinner on the mat. Bebe sighed at the sight of it. Neither of them had ordered, and she doubted her mom had called it in before heading out. But Max didn’t seem to understand that no amount of free dumplings would make her interested. She picked up the food, and the key from under the mat, and let them in.

Louis sprawled on the couch as Bebe set the food in the kitchen. “What’s on?” she called to him as he switched on the TV.

“Faking It. Yay or nay?”

“Sure.”

Opening the fridge, she was less annoyed by Max’s crush than she was a moment ago. There was a full bottle of watermelon lemonade, but not much else.

Bebe dropped heart-shaped ice cubes into two cups— she always forgot to pour second— and carried a tray to the couch.

“This acting is… horrendous,” Louis said.

Sometimes the two of them were biased— their competitive streaks tended to make watching anything difficult for them— but in this instance, his statement was irrefutably correct.

“The premise of this show is so absurd,” Bebe said. “Pretending to be gay with your friend to be popular? Like, that level of scheming— who has the time?”

Louis looked thoughtful for a moment. “When are you meeting with Clare again?”

“Thursday,” she said, looking over at him, the ice clinking in her glass as she stirred it with a long spoon. “Why?”

He grinned, narrowing his eyes. He took a long, dramatic pause, sipping his lemonade, and then said, “Scheming.”

“You little weasel!” Bebe said. “What are you up to?” She turned toward him, pulling her legs up, crossed under her. She waited. Louis always did the planning for their pranks. The ban they currently had for the play didn’t necessarily apply to the whole school— or maybe it was for someone else? Max? Her eyes probably gleamed with the glee of anticipation.

“As it stands,” Louis said, setting down his glass, “neither of us have any chance with our beloveds. We are fated to the harrowing, slow deaths which unrequited love inflict upon the frail human frame.”

“Too true.”

“But,” he said, turning to face her, now, too, “what if we had access points?”

She furrowed her brow. “Us? Access? To two of the most popular kids in school? What’ll we do, bribe them with free Chinese food?”

“Not bribing,” he said, “an _in_.”

“Ok,” she said. “I’ll bite. But how?”

“You’re Clare’s project partner,” he said, smiling at her.

“Yeah? So?”

“And I’m…” now he trailed off, screwing up his nose and looking away from her. “Well, I haven’t quite figured that part out yet. But I’m a boy, at least— I have the upper hand of male camaraderie.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Lou?”

“We befriend them!” he said, clapping his hands together. “You Clare, me Harry. And we have our in!”

Bebe thought about it a moment, then turned and leaned back agains the couch, looking down at herself. “I don’t know, Lou,” she said. She raised a brow and gestured to herself. “I mean, look at me. I’m not exactly the type of girl Clare hangs around.”

“Why, because you’re not a cheerleader? Oh, please. That’s all arbitrary. Do we love everyone in the plays?”

He had a point.

“Maybe not, but Clare does associate primarily with— you know. Girly girls.”

Louis sighed dramatically. “Come on, Be. It’s 2018. Aren’t you being antiquated?”

“I’m not saying I’m _better_ than them,” Bebe argued. “Just _different_. I don’t know what we’d have in common.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. He leaned his head back and said dreamily, “Clare’s a very complex girl. She’ll probably surprise you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bebe rolled her eyes. “Well what about _you_ then? What will the quarterback of the football team have in common with _you_?”

“Again, we’re not in _The Breakfast Club._ You’re the one who’s always going on about what a _sweetheart_ the boy is. I’m sure we’ll get along fine.”

“Ok,” Bebe said hesitantly. “But you’re not his project partner. What are you going to do, just walk up to him and go, ‘hey, wanna be friends?’”

Louis pondered it. “Maybe he needs a tutor.”

“No. He’s smart.” Now Bebe sighed dreamily.

Louis rolled his eyes. “Ok. I’ll…” he made a face of disgust and looked at the screen. “Ugh. I’ll. Ask for… sport help.”

“ _Sport help?_ ” Bebe doubled over in laughter. “What are you _talking_ about? You couldn’t even think of a specific sport!”

“Well, football, obviously. That’s the one he does.”

“ _The one_ ,” Bebe said through laughter. “Great plan, Louis.”

“Listen. Danny goes through this transformation, right? Trying to appease Sandy. He becomes a jock for her. Of sorts. I’ll say I’m trying to get into character.”

“Danny does track, Louis.”

“It’s not the sport that matters! Just the _change_. The embarrassment and struggle of picking up a sport when you’ve never done it before.” He was nodding now. “This is a great idea! Method acting, Bebe.”

“There’s no way he’ll buy it, Lou.”

“Well, we’ll see. If he’s as sweet as you say, he won’t turn down a cry for help.” He grinned, picking up his lemonade again. “Even if it doesn’t make that much sense.”

 

*

 

Bebe wasn’t meeting with Clare until tomorrow, but Louis figured there was no time like the present to start holding up his end of their deal.

He waited until the small group congregated around Harry headed off towards their respective classrooms before he approached the football player, who was spinning his lock an unnecessary number of times to make sure it actually locked.

“Hi, Harold,” Louis said.

Harry jumped a bit. “Oh! Um, hi, Louis! I didn’t see you there.”

“Can I talk to you for a moment? I won’t hold you up long, I know you have to get to class,” Louis said, as if he didn’t as well.

“Of course!” Harry said, tucking one of his long curls behind his ear, fidgety as ever. “What’s up?”

“I have a strange request to make,” Louis said. “A favor, actually.”

“Anything!” Harry said. Louis raised his brows, surprised at the enthusiasm of that response. Harry dropped his gaze, suddenly needing to readjust the pile of books in his arms. Louis would have been struggling with a pile like that— but, of course, Louis noted, looking at the other boy’s arms, he didn’t have a quarterback’s biceps.

“You may know the school is putting on _Grease_ for the fall production.”

Harry nodded.

“And I’m playing Danny Zuko.”

Harry nodded again.

“Well— Danny goes through something of a transformation, over the course of the story, you may recall— I assume you’ve seen the film?”

“Of course!”

“Right. Well, then, you’ll remember that for Sandy’s sake, he makes some attempt to become a jock.”

“He does track,” Harry said.

Louis sighed, fighting the image of Bebe’s smirk. “Yes. But the transformation, and the difficulty of it, is what is significant.”

“Right,” Harry nodded, his gaze intense on Louis, like the shorter boy had his full, undivided attention. Louis appreciated it— it was how he liked things, after all.

“Well. I was wondering if you could help me make that part of my performance _authentic._ ”

Harry stared at him, evidently dumbfounded as to what Louis was asking him for.

“I was wondering if you would— you know— teach me… football.”

“Oh!”

“Or— I wouldn’t want to take up too much of your time, of course. And I don’t have that much to give up, myself, with practices—”

“Yeah, those go long!”

Louis grinned at Harry’s fervor. “Right. So maybe you could just teach me some of the basics. Like… throwing, and whatnot.”

Harry stifled a laugh. “Throwing?”

“Oh, hush. I don’t pretend to have any competency _whatsoever_ in sports. I’m not embarrassed about it.”

“Of course not,” Harry said, still grinning cheekily. “All right.”

“All right?”

“Sure.”

“So you’ll help me?”

Harry leaned a shoulder against his locker. “I’ll help you… but…” he looked down, smiling.

“What?”

“Hm…” he said. He looked back up at Louis from under his lashes. “What do I get out of it?”

Louis was momentarily stunned by the delivery of this line. If he didn’t know better, he’d think it was a _pickup_ line. “I don’t know,” Louis said. “What do you want?”

Harry stared at him for a moment, looking conflicted. Then he straightened. “You can bake, right?” he said.

“Oh. Yeah?”

“Will you teach me?”

Louis laughed. “The quarterback wants to bake. All right. Absolutely, I can teach you. Piece of cake.”

Harry cackled at the pun, and after shaking on it, they went their separate ways.

Louis discreetly texted Bebe under his desk.

_made contact_

_he bought it???_

_hook line sinker_

Bebe sent a string of celebratory emojis. Then,

_he really is too sweet to have agreed to that shit. don't corrupt him_

_me!!! if his innocence is so important to u we should call the deal off right now_

_LAY OFF. IM INNOCENT. IM STRAWBERRY FUCKING SHORTCAKE_

Louis grinned and pocketed his phone. He’d let his silence speak for itself.

He tried not to worry too much about what he was getting himself into as he wrote down everything his teacher wrote on the board. It wasn’t as if he was totally out of shape, or a generally non-physical person. He danced in the musicals, and had even become somewhat proficient in fencing for a production of _Cyrano de Bergerac._ Weekend mornings he usually went running with the family dog, and even for the plays he was always on his feet, moving around. But football was none of those things. Football was an entirely different beast.

His mom had always been supportive of his interests, but sometimes he wondered, if his dad had been around, whether he would have been quite so supportive. Whether he would’ve wished that Louis played sports, or showed an interest in math, science, business— that he dressed differently, talked differently. Fit the mold. Of course wondering was of no use, and what did it matter what his dad might have thought, anyway, since he couldn’t be bothered to raise his own son?

Louis pulled his cardigan closer around him, leaning closer over his desk. He could play football. It would be fine. What could really happen? It was just a sport. He knew what to expect.

He took his phone out again and smirked at Bebe’s outraged string of follow-up texts. Then there was one from an unknown number.

_when did you want to start?_

_sorry, who is this?_

_harry sorry haha_

Louis quirked a brow in surprise.

_sorry, how did you get my number?_

Harry didn’t respond for several minutes. Then,

_group project in bio_

Louis’s brows went up further. That was freshman year. Harry had saved his number for three years?

Well, some people don’t replace their phones that often. Or pay that much attention to old contacts…

Louis responded with a, _let me consult my calendar, ill let you know_ and tucked his phone away.

 

*

 

Thursday night, Bebe stopped at Ralphs on the way home. She kept thinking about realtors in movies baking cookies in open houses. It seemed like a good idea, so she bought a roll of Tollhouse chocolate chip. She didn’t stick it in the oven all in a roll though, evenif it wasn’t the cookies themselves she was after— _Clueless_ had taught her better than that.

She felt unexpectedly nervous, waiting for Clare to come over. She’d never really _tried_ to make a friend before, and she didn’t want to let Louis down. He _was_ pretty much her only friend, after all— or at least her best. She was friendly with plenty of people in the theater department, but they hadn’t grown up with her, they didn’t know her secrets— she didn’t have sleepovers with them. Unless the ridiculously late practices they always had in the days just before performances counted. Which they maybe should. Because really. They went _long._ She felt tired just thinking about it.

Bebe’s phone buzzed— she’d told Clare to text her when she got there, given the buzzer situation. She darted down the stairs, opening the building door to a mid-yawn Clare Uchima. She’d changed out of her cheerleading uniform, wearing, instead, what might be considered by some to be a sun dress, but looked to Bebe like some old-timey lingerie. “Um,” she said, somewhat thrown by the look, “come in.”

Clare followed her up the stairs and settled on the couch. “Are you making cookies?”

“Yeah,” Bebe said, face warm. “They should be ready soon if you want some.”

“I just had dinner, actually, but thank you.”

Bebe sat down next to her, feeling absurd. In her sweatpants and the grungy old Hawaiian shirt she’d stolen from one of Lottie’s boyfriends, she felt like a _before_ shot to Clare’s _after_. It wasn’t just the fashion, either. Bebe was actually pretty confident in her body— it’d taken time, but she liked being thick. But her confidence wavered next to Clare, skinny, beautiful Clare, who’d missed class just last week because she had a modeling audition.

Bebe realized she’d been staring, and she cleared her throat. She was about to get to the point, with the project, but then remembered the _scheme._ “Um,” she said, “how, uh— how was your day?”

Clare smiled at her. “It was good. Long. Cheer practice ended pretty recently.”

“Yeah, me too,” Bebe nodded. She squeezed her eyes shut. “I mean, not cheer, but—”

“Play practice. Yeah. You guys go _hard_.”

“Oh. Well, we’re not doing gymnastics in the air, though.”

Clare laughed. “We don’t really do much aerial work.”

“Sorry,” Bebe cringed, “I don’t really go to the games.”

“I wouldn’t if I didn’t have to.”

“I have seen _Bring it On_ , though,” Bebe said, wishing she would shut up, “probably too many times.”

Clare laughed again. “Don’t worry,” she said, leaning toward Bebe conspiratorially, “we only steal routines from the Malibu kids.”

Bebe grinned, surprised at Clare’s sense of humor, and how well this seemed to be going. “Well, they can certainly do without.”

“Agreed.”

The oven beeped, and Bebe darted up. She stared at Clare, who raised her brows. “Cookies,” Bebe said, and turned to the kitchen. Ok, well, it _was_ going well.

Clare took a cookie, though she’d said she wouldn’t. Bebe ate two, and tried to think of other things to say. “I can put music on?” she said, standing.

“Sure,” Clare said.

“I’ll be right back,” Bebe ran to her room to grab her lap top and speaker. She set them up on the coffee table as Clare reached for another cookie. “Anything you like?” Bebe asked.

“Um… Yoko Ono?”

“Yoko Ono? Like, John Lennon’s wife?” Clare nodded. “She did music?”

“Does. Um, but I like other stuff, too, if you don’t— I like King Princess?”

“Oh, no! Yoko Ono’s fine! I just didn’t know. Well, I guess I can’t say it’s fine, since I’ve never heard it before, so maybe I’ll hate it, but I—” Bebe closed her eyes again and took a deep breath. “I’ll put her on. Anything in particular?”

“Anything on _Fly_ is great.”

Bebe looked up the album and started to nod along as it played. “Ok,” she said, looking at Clare, grinning, “I like it. I feel like I should jive!”

Clare laughed, “Go on then, Pink Lady.”

Bebe put on an embarrassing display of moves that were actually Louis’s, and Clare folded over in laughter. Her cheeks hot with exertion and embarrassment and delight, Bebe collapsed onto the couch halfway through the song. “That was a free preview. But you’ll have to buy a ticket to see the whole show.”

“Oh, I’ll buy out the house,” Clare said. Bebe tucked her chin in toward her neck, grinning, and they finally started in on the project.

Bebe was jittery with nervous energy when Clare left. She was cleaning the house when her mom came home.

“Bebe?” her mom called. “Is that… a feather duster?”

“Oui, madame!”

“Get down from that chair, would you? What in the world are you doing?”

Bebe climbed down and held the duster up like a trophy. “I’m spring cleaning.”

“It’s mid-autumn, Bebe.”

“I’m mid-autumn cleaning, then.”

Bebe’s mom shook her head, sighing. “I’ll never understand teenagers,” she said, heading towards her bedroom.

Bebe turned down Yoko Ono at her mother’s request as she cleaned out under the couch. She found a remote they’d replaced, one of Louis’s socks, and her one and only bra with underwire. She stared at her discoveries for a moment before tucking them back under the couch and eating a cookie. She got crumbs all over herself.

Still restless after not-so-deep cleaning the whole living room, she decided to go for a walk. She unlocked her bike and rode to Third Street. Pretty much everything was closed already, but she loved just to walk down the middle of the strip mall, especially as it got later. People milled around still, laughing, Starbucks cups in one hand, Urban Outfitter bags in the other. Bebe settled down by one of the hedge dinosaurs and watched the street performers. Someone was in what appeared to be a child’s clothing hamper— they had their arm in a puppet, which they had mouthing along to Wonderwall. Bebe shook with quiet laughter. She and Louis often joked about performing here— some kind of two-man show, or maybe a _Les Mis_ duet— but they couldn’t actually be bothered with the permits and the hassle, so they just watched.

Even as an actress, and after taking part in more than one embarrassing skit at the school talent shows, Bebe was still occasionally astounded by the confidence of the street performers. The woman belting like it was opening night on Broadway, despite the fact that not one single person was actually stopping in front of her, and her guitar case had no more than three bucks total in tips. The guy in full-body silver paint doing cheap illusions; the kind you can learn from a five minute youtube tutorial. The two middle-aged women, both thicker than herself, belly-dancing. Bebe felt a warmth toward all of them, a kind of camaraderie— but also a kind of envy. They were so comfortable, and even in costumes or body paint, they were authentic— it was them she was seeing, not any kind of impression or act they were putting on to meet anyone else’s expectations. Bebe never felt particularly fake or anything— except when she was watching the street performers. Then she wondered if maybe they were the only people in LA who were real.

She waited until all the performers were gone before she headed home herself. She had one more cookie before bed.

 

*

 

Louis forewent greetings to say, “So? How did it go?”

Bebe chewed on her lower lip as she spun her lock. She never got it right on the first try. “Good, I think,” she said.

“Yeah? On your way to being to Mercutio to her Benvolio?”

“I don’t know if I’d go _that_ far,” Bebe said.

“Things are going well with Styles, as well,” Louis informed her. “We’re meeting up on Saturday.”

Bebe grinned wide. “I still can’t believe he agreed.”

“Yes, yes, he’s sweet as a button, we get it,” Louis rolled his eyes as he adjusted his fringe. He cringed, “I just hope I don’t suffer any major injuries doing _sports_. I can’t exactly perform Greased Lightning to the best of my abilities if I’ve strained anything.”

“I think you’re in more danger of harming _Harry_ than yourself,” Bebe said.

“You’re a pest.”

“The best of the pests.” She frowned suddenly. “Did we have Chemistry homework?”

“Why do you even have a planner?” Louis asked. Bebe held up her ink-smudged hand.

“Works just as well,” she said.

“ _Does_ it?”

“We did have homework, didn’t we.”

“You can copy mine at lunch,” Louis shook his head at her. Bebe grinned and threw an arm around his shoulders.

“Who needs a planner when a gal’s got friends like you?”

“ _Friend_ like me. There’s only one Louis Tomlinson.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“ _You_ wouldn’t even know what that word means if you didn’t have me around.” Bebe groaned and walked away from him. Louis grinned and headed off in the opposite direction.

Practice ran late that evening, and again on Friday. Saturday morning passed unattended by Louis— he didn’t wake up until well past 1 PM. When he did, he remembered he was supposed to be at Harry’s at 3, and he hurried to eat and get ready. Unsurprisingly, he’d never been to Harry Styles’s house before. Also unsurprisingly, said house was huge. It was on one of those Santa Monica streets that all seem to blend into each other, almost like those McMansion neighborhoods in less affluent areas; lined with palm trees, glistening, white-stucco-walled Spanish-style homes and expensive mom cars. Louis’s family’s cramped Venice beach loft could almost fit in Harry’s garage.

Louis listened to the doorbell reverberate throughout the enormous house as he waited. Harry’s older sister, Gemma, who’d graduated from their school a few years before, opened the door.

“Whoa,” she said. She grinned and crossed her arms, leaning against the doorjamb. “I’ll be damned. I never thought he’d get the nerve.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Louis scrunched up his brow, utterly bewildered by this greeting— or lack thereof.

“You’re here for Harry, right?”

“Yes, of course.”

“He asked you over?”

“He’s teaching me sports.”

Now _she_ looked confused. “He’s what?”

“Gemma!” Harry yelled, somewhat frantically, from the top of an elegant wooden staircase. Louis peered in at the interior of the house— it looked like a giant version of a fairytale cottage. The entryway opened, on the right, into some kind of salon or living room, in which was a fireplace that could fit probably three Louis’s horizontally, and at least one vertically. The furniture wasn’t any of the gaudy Beverly Hills decor he’d half expected; rather cozy-looking, instead; but nonetheless clearly expensive. He eyed a pile of shoes by the doorway, amused that it seemed to be just in front of a— clearly underused— coat closet. In the pile was a pair of sparkly golden Chelsea boots. Louis stared at them, and then at Gemma’s feet. They were clearly too large for her.

“I got it!” Harry said, running to the door.

“Clearly I already opened the door, Harry,” Gemma let her eyes roll to the ceiling and stay there. Louis quirked a brow.

“Just… go away, please,” Harry said, lightly shoving Gemma’s shoulder. She sighed and started away, but he grabbed her arm, and they had some kind of wordless eye-conversation that Louis could not decipher for the life of him. He gave up quickly, toeing off his Toms. Too late, he remembered they were going to be doing… athletic things. Which would probably require footwear. But he’d already taken off his shoes, and he’d look ridiculous if he just put them right back on…

Louis was staring at his own shoes in indecision when Harry finally turned to him. Following his gaze, Harry said, “Oh! You can borrow some of my old sneakers.”

“Oh,” Louis said, realizing that Toms were, indeed, useless sports-shoes anyway. “Sure, Ok. Thanks. Sorry, I should’ve—”

“Not a problem! Come on, I’ll take you to my room and we’ll see what we can find.”

Harry’s room had shag carpeting. Honest-to-God shag carpetting. It also had a king-sized, canopied bed, and a surprising lack of discarded clothes on the floor and furniture. There were no posters on the walls, but there was a giant, framed print of Freddie Mercury on one wall, and a framed jersey on another. Louis found one of these items somewhat more startling than the other.

Harry started to open his closet, then paused. “Um,” he said. He looked back at Louis. “Just… one moment.”

He disappeared into the closet— a walk-in, of course— without opening the door wide enough for Louis to look in. All the more confused and intrigued, Louis wandered over toward Harry’s dark mahogany desk. A literary-classic-looking novel titled _Maurice_ rested on the discarded sleeve of a Rolling Stones vinyl. Three empty mugs rested atop and around scattered homework and what Louis believed were sketches of football plays. Just before Harry came out of the closet, Louis glanced at the singular bare wall, bathed in sunlight from the opposite window, which seemed to illuminate a large rectangle of unbleached paint— like a tapestry, or something, had been recently taken down. Harry cleared his throat, distracting Louis from the sight, and held up a pair of Adidas sneakers. “These should do,” he said.

“Thanks,” Louis said, trying them on successfully and casting one last glance at that wall before following Harry out of the room.

“Do you want anything to eat or drink? I’m gonna grab a Fiji water, if you want one?”

“Sure, thanks.”

The island in Harry’s kitchen was enormous— perfect for Louis’s affinity for sitting on kitchen counters while other people did the cooking. He had to stop himself from hopping up while Harry retrieved the waters from his huge, stainless steel fridge.

“Backyard’s just through here,” Harry said, handing Louis his water before leading him down a hallway into a big sunroom and out through glass, many-paned doors into a stunningly landscaped yard. Longer than it was wide, the perimeter of the yard was lined with pine trees, and a manicured lawn was preceded by an imitation-natural-pond swimming pool, complete with a fake rock formation which housed a slide into the water. Rose bushes grew over a small fence, demarcating a brick patio space from the lawn, which was clearly used for sports— a discarded football lay square in the center of it, like it belonged there. Harry jogged ahead of Louis, picking up the ball and holding it up like a waiter holds a tray, turning to Louis as if presenting it to him.

“Ok,” he said, and he tucked the ball under his arm to tie his hair up in a tiny bun. “Let’s start with grip.”

Louis restrained himself from making a lewd joke, and instead nodded, approaching Harry and the accursed object reluctantly.

Harry positioned himself next to Louis and held the ball up to show him his grip. “So you’ll want your ring and pinky fingers to cross the laces,” he pointed with his other hand, “and, see, your thumb should be underneath. Index finger,” here he tapped his index finger against the ball, “is over a seam— and see how my index finger and my thumb are in a kind of shape like an L?”

Louis nodded, holding up his empty hand and trying to imitate the spread of Harry’s fingers.

“Now, you don’t want to _palm_ the ball,” he said, again indicating his grip with his other hand. “You can see I’m keeping some space between the ball and the middle of my palm? You don’t want to grip it too tightly. Just firm enough so you have control of the ball.”

Louis nodded again.

“Ok,” Harry said. “Let’s— um— I’ll—” he hesitated a moment before taking hold of Louis’s hand. Surprised, Louis let him. Harry splayed out Louis’s fingers and tucked the football in from underneath, holding it up, into Louis’s hand, as he used his other hand to position Louis’s fingers. “See? Good. And make sure you have that space—” He slipped his fingers in between the ball and Louis’s palms, the pads of his fingertips smoothly brushing Louis’s lifeline. Louis flinched.

“You got it,” Harry said. He moved his hand out from under the ball, and Louis promptly dropped it.

Harry laughed. “Ok. Good loose grip. Maybe a _little_ tighter.”

Louis chuckled nervously, feeling his cheeks warm up. They worked further on Louis’s grip, his stance, holding the ball by his ear, and his wind back. Then Harry exhibited how to throw the ball in a half-circular motion, and how to release it with the fingertips. This went on for what felt like hours— and Louis never even actually threw the ball.

Harry glanced at the time on his phone, eventually, and laughed breathily. “Oh, man. I’m sorry, you probably want to cut this out now.”

Despite himself, Louis nodded enthusiastically.

Harry laughed, shaking his head at himself. “I’m sorry. That was way more in depth than it needed to be. Probably _not_ what you were looking for—”

“No!” Louis said hurriedly. “It was good. I mean, I appreciate thoroughness.”

Harry chuckled brokenly, shaking his head at himself again. Louis looked at him thoughtfully. “I can tell you really love this stuff,” he said, and Harry looked at him, surprised, but nodding in agreement. “I think that’s beautiful. It’s good to be passionate about something, you know?” Louis grinned, “Even _sports_.”

Harry looked nervous as she shuffled on his feet and said, “It’s— I mean— football isn’t my only interest. I’m not just—” he cut himself off, frowning at the ground.

Louis tilted his head at him, wondering what he was going to say.

“Harry!” Gemma called from the sunroom. “Will your _guest_ be staying for dinner?”

Harry looked at Louis in question. Something in his expression threw Louis, so he wasn’t quite able to answer immediately, distracted by his own confusion. Eventually he shook his head. “No, I should get home. Thanks for this, Harry. I really appreciate it.”

“Any time,” Harry said. “I mean— we are— doing this again, right?”

“If you’ll have me back.”

Harry grinned at him. “Keep the sneakers.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the METRO??

“Come on, honey. Just let me see. You don’t have to buy it if you hate it. But at least let me see!”

Bebe groaned, eyeing herself in the mirror again. She knew she couldn’t wear track pants to a wedding, but her mom seriously had to be kidding with this. The neckline plunged, a wide V ending _below_ her breasts, and the slit of the red velvet dress came up well above her knee— she wondered what the point of floor length dresses really was if you could see nearly all of both legs.

Her mom threw a pair of black stilettos under the dressing room door.

“ _Mom_ ,” Bebe protested. “I’ll break my ankles!”

“Just _try_ them, Bebe.”

Sighing, Bebe conceded, strapping on the weapons of ankle-destruction before— _very_ carefully— stepping out of the dressing room.

“Oh, honey!” Bebe’s mom clapped her hands together. “You look stunning! It’s absolutely perfect!”

“Mom. I look like Jessica Rabbit. I look like a very uncomfortable Jessica Rabbit who, if she wore this to an actual wedding, would be in the hospital before they could cut the cake.”

“Well, that’s not too bad,” her mom argued. “They don’t cut the cake for quite a while.”

“Mom!”

“Bebe?”

Bebe swiveled at the sound of her name, an absolutely horrible decision, resulting in her scrambling to catch herself on the dressing room door jamb, and heaving a shocked gasp as her mom surged forward, arms out, an expression of panic crossing her face.

Clare Uchima gaped at her. Bebe stared at her and felt a slow-spreading heat cover her entire body like a white sheet over a dead body.

“Um,” she said. “Hi.”

Clare shut her mouth but continued to stare, silent, at Bebe, for so long that Bebe’s mother finally cleared her throat. Loudly.

Clare shook herself as if out of a trance and smiled at the woman. “Hi!”

“Mom, this is Clare,” Bebe said, still gripping the door jamb for dear life, wobbling like a foal. Bebe’s mom looked between the two of them, as if trying to figure out the connection between her daughter— who looked about as comfortable in her current attire as a Mormon at a Pride parade— and the dark-haired girl currently staring at her daughter, who looked like she’d stepped out of one of the ads printed on the walls of the store in her light pink mini dress and platform heels. “She’s a cheerleader,” Bebe said for no apparent reason. Then she added, more appropriately, “We’re project partners.”

“Oh!” Bebe’s mom nodded in understanding. “How you doing— Clare, was it?”

Clare smiled at her, “I’m well, Miss Rexha, thanks for asking. It’s nice to meet you— I can see where Bebe gets her good looks.”

Bebe reeled back at that, and finally lost her footing. Clare and her mom surged forward, but Clare reached her first; she caught her arm in one hand and righted her with the other on the small of Bebe’s back. They stared at each other a moment, and then Bebe said, “I’m gonna take these off.”

Clare was still there when Bebe came out of the dressing room, back in her own clothes, and Bebe’s mom looked up from her phone. “Honey, I’m sorry, we’ll have to find you something later— unless you like that one?”

Bebe opened her mouth to respond in the negative, but then she glanced at Clare and found herself nodding, “Sure, this is fine.” She gave her mom a stern look, “No heels, though.”

“We’ll talk about it. Maybe some platforms,” Bebe’s mom said, glancing ate Clare’s footwear. She held up her phone, “I have to go, unfortunately. Do you want a ride home first? Or— maybe you girls want to continue shopping on your own?”

“Um.”

“Sure, my friends ditched me anyway,” Clare said.

“Oh.” Bebe’s mom raised a brow at her. “Sure, Ok.”

“I’ll see you at home, then. So nice to meet you, Clare.”

“You too!”

Bebe’s mom took the dress up to the register, leaving the girls alone. Bebe knew she should be excited about this— it was a perfect opportunity to further her friendship with the head cheerleader, a la The Plan, but she felt almost sick with nerves, glancing at the other girl as they walked out of the shop, and she kind of wished she could just go home.

It’d be better even if they were just at the Promenade, but Third Street didn’t have the shop her mom had wanted to visit, so they were at a proper mall— Bebe’s Discomfort Zone, as Louis put it. She didn’t mind dragging Louis unwillingly behind her into Zumiez or the boys sections of H&M and Forever 21, but she hated seeing people from school in places like this. She’d see them trying on lacey tops and sun dresses; crop tops that said “bitch” or something in French, and she’d feel that deep-seated squirminess, like there was something she’d been meant to be born knowing— something that couldn’t be taught— that she just hadn’t. Like she was missing something important about being a girl, and in places like this, she couldn’t pretend she wasn’t.

“There’s a Target in this mall, right?” Clare asked.

Bebe nodded enthusiastically, “Yeah! By the left exit.”

“Do you mind? I need shampoo.”

Bebe had a sudden image of Clare, hands in her sudsy hair, her eyes closed as she tilted her head back into the hot water— she nodded again. “Fine by me.”

Bebe was immediately distracted by the dollar section when they walked into Target, and she put on a funny headband and turned to Clare with a wide grin. Clare, who had apparently pulled out her phone in the split second between when Bebe put the headband and when she turned around, snapped a picture of her, laughing. Bebe blanched and tried to steal the phone out of Clare’s hands to erase the photo, but Clare, still laughing, wrenched the phone out of Bebe’s reach—curse tall people— until finally tucking it into her bra. Bebe promptly tucked her arms in at her sides. That ended that.

Clare, surprisingly, paid little attention to the women’s clothes section, instead heading straight for the crafts. She held up a cardboard dinosaur and made a roaring sound that Bebe could find no words to respond to in any way.

When they finally made it to the personal hygiene section of the store, Clare grabbed a purple tube. “Right, I need moisturizer.”

Bebe peered over her shoulder at the tube. “I don’t get that stuff.”

“What? Moisturizer?”

Bebe shrugged. “Any of it, I guess.”

“Don’t you wash your face or anything?”

“Sure, with water.”

Clare laughed. “Well. Not all of us are blessed with natural perfect skin.”

Bebe blushed.

Clare grabbed two thin plastic things. “We should do facials,” she said.

“Huh? Don’t you have to like, make something in a blender for that?”

“A blender?”

“Yea. No? A juicer?”

Clare laughed near-hysterically. “You’re helpless,” she said, and put the plastic things in her basket along with the purple tube. “Now. Shampoo.”

After retaining the necessary shampoo, the two of them weaved in and out of aisles at random. Clare collapsed into a child’s beanbag and Bebe attempted to fall into the tiny armchair next to it, but ended up in a heap on the floor. Clare nearly fell out of her own seat laughing. Clare was utterly scandalized when Bebe started eating a bag of Sour Patch Kids right there in the middle of the candy aisle.

“Don’t worry, princess, I’ll pay for them.”

Clare frowned at that, and Bebe remembered Louis saying they weren’t in _The Breakfast Club_. She held the bag out toward Clare, who accepted it, though she looked nervously around as she ate a few before handing it back to Bebe.

She knew Clare had said her friends had ditched her, which was already confusing, but Bebe couldn’t figure why the girl was willingly spending her free time with herself— and not even because they had a project to do together. She’d imagined this whole try-to-befriend-the-most-popular-girl-in-school plan would go over much worse in reality than it was.

“Oh, here we go,” Clare said, grabbing a cat onesie and turning to Bebe with a grin.

“Didn’t realize you were a furry,” Bebe said with a quirked brow.

“Not for me,” Clare said.

“ _Me?_ In _that?_ ”

“Oh, yeah. Very cute.”

Bebe blanched and looked away, feeling a jittery tingle travel down her arms to her fingertips. Clare put the onesie back, chuckling, and they moved on. Bebe saw that basic pillows were only five dollars and she wanted to buy, like, ten. Clare asked her what she needed them for. Bebe grumbled unhappily, but left them behind. In the checkout line, Clare insisted on paying for Bebe’s candy, despite her protests. “I ate some, anyway.”

“You had, like, two.” Clare batted away Bebe’s wallet, making a _tsk_ sound with her mouth and giving Bebe a glare that had her holding her hands up in surrender.

They exited the mall through the Target entrance, and Clare turned to her. “You need a ride home?”

“Oh. I was just gonna get the bus, thanks though.”

“Seriously? The Metro? The most unreliable form of transit on God’s green earth?” Clare grinned. “Come on, let me show you my baby. I love detours. More time with her.”

Bebe followed, interested, and whistled low when she saw the cheerleader’s car— an old, but excellently maintained, orange muscle car with two white stripes running over its top.

“She’s a ’73 Camaro,” Clare said, running a hand along the hood proudly. “Isn’t she gorgeous?”

Bebe nodded in agreement, stunned by the car— or, more so, by the fact that _this_ was _Clare Uchima’s_ car. Well— it did match her cheer uniform.

The car had an actual— working, according to Clare’s proud declaration— tape player.

“Check the glove compartment,” Clare said. Bebe did. It was stuffed full of tapes— she pulled out a few at random, rifling through them; she didn’t know all the artists, but a few were familiar; there was that Yoko Ono album— and!

“Joan Jett!” Bebe cried. Clare laughed, seeming pleased at Bebe’s enthusiasm.

“You a fan?”

“She was so _cool_ , you know? People aren’t _cool_ like that anymore.”

“She is,” Clare said, and she took the tape from Bebe and put it in. She skipped a few tracks until “Crimson and Clover” came on. She grinned at Bebe, and then she swung out of the parking space like _Baby Driver_. Bebe gaped at her, and Clare beat her hands on the steering wheel, nodding enthusiastically as she eyed her mirrors. Bebe’s gaze slipped down Clare’s long, bare legs, to her platform heel on the gas pedal. She felt a growing warmth in the pit of her stomach, that soon escalated from warmth to a heat that felt like it might burn her from the inside out. Who _was_ this person?

Clare waved with one perfectly manicured— albeit not overly-long-nailed— hand as Bebe got out in front of her apartment. She watched her drive off, and only when she was dumbly buzzing her own apartment did she realize she’d left her Target bag in the car.

 

*

 

Louis obviously knew he was meant to be meeting Harry— he’d made the plans, after all— but nonetheless the sight of the quarterback of the football team standing outside the theater, hair loose and dripping from the locker room showers, his arms crossed over his chest and one leg kicked back against the wall, waiting for Louis… it was strange.

“I have to make a few stops on the way home, if you don’t mind,” Harry said as they walked to his Range Rover. “Just quick stops— Gemma wants me to ask these coffee shops if they’ll put up her fliers.”

“What’re the fliers for?” Louis asked, buckling in.

“She’s arranging an outdoor avant garde film screening.”

“Whoa,” Louis raised his brows, looking over at Harry. “That’s so cool.”

“Yeah, she’s really into it. Got me in on it too, a little, I’ll admit,” Harry grinned.

Louis couldn’t help but stare at Harry a beat too long at this statement. Harry Styles. Avant garde film fan.

“Any favorites?” he asked.

“Um, yeah, a few. _Blood of a Poet?_ ”

“Jean Cocteau?” Louis asked, now making no effort to refrain from displaying his surprise.

“Yeah. And some Kenneth Anger…”

“ _Scorpio Rises_?”

“Uh… nah. I mean, it’s good, but I prefer _Fireworks._ ”

“I don’t know that one.”

Harry chewed on his bottom lip.

“What else?”

Harry laughed, shrugging one shoulder. “I don’t know… um. I… _Un Chant d’Amour_?”

Harry nailed the French pronunciation, which shouldn’t have surprised Louis among all these revelations about the boy, but it did— still, he didn’t know the film. He said as much.

“It’s Jean Genet,” Harry said.

Louis finally set his gaze out the front window. “I… did not see this coming, quarterback.”

Harry chuckled. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Tomlinson.”

“What else?”

“Hm.”

“Well,” Louis said, crossing his arms over his chest. “You hardly know everything about _me_.”

Harry grinned. “Try me.” Louis glanced at him, and Harry’s face fell, staring out at the road. His cheeks went pink.

“What’s my favorite band?” Louis asked.

“The Stone Roses,” Harry said, as if automatically, before gritting his teeth.

Louis stared at him. “How did you know that?”

Harry shrugged one shoulder. “You wear a lot of band shirts.”

That was true, of course, but he didn’t know— wouldn’t have expected— that Harry had noticed.

Louis narrowed his eyes. “Favorite movie?”

Harry hurriedly shrugged, but Louis leaned toward him. “You _know_ , don’t you?”

“…no.”

“Harry Styles.”

“Ok. Fine. _Point Break_.”

“What!” Louis practically jumped up and down in his seat. “How did you _know_ that?”

“I don’t know, Louis. You talk about it a lot. You’re an actor, you talk about movies, it’s your craft, or whatever, you—”

“No offense, Harold, but we’ve had maybe two conversations in all the time we’ve known each other. Until the other day, I mean.”

Harry bit his bottom lip again. “I didn’t say you talked about it to me.”

Louis shook his head, laughing. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for the type, Styles, I have to say.”

“What type?” Harry asked nervously, his hands tightening on the wheel.

“The observant type. A people watcher. _One who notices._ ”

“Oh,” Harry said, his hands loosening. He shrugged again. “Like I said, there’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

The stops _were_ quick, Harry just popping in and out of three coffee shops— Louis watched from the passenger seat, and it seemed the baristas all knew Harry. Did he just drink an absurd amount of coffee? Or did his sister hold a lot of flier-requiring events? Regardless, even from the car Louis could see the enthusiasm everyone showed at the sight of Harry. It was interesting to see he was just as popular outside of school as he was inside. Not that Louis was surprised. The boy had charisma. Or at least a truly win-you-over smile.

“I’m starved,” Harry said when they stepped into his house. “Do you want anything?”

“I could use some sustenance.”

Harry grinned over his shoulder— presumably at Louis’s choice of words— and they headed toward the kitchen. Harry pulled out what looked to be leftover casserole and arched a brow at Louis in question. Louis nodded his approval, amused that this ridiculously wealthy family seemed to have similar culinary inclinations as his own. Harry peeled back the Saran wrap and stuck the casserole dish in the microwave, and Louis leaned back against the counter, seriously contending with himself to keep from hopping up onto it. Harry leaned down, rifling around in a low drawer for something, and Louis looked at the bit of skin on his lower back which the motion revealed. The tan skin, the light brushing of baby hair— his gaze traveled up to Harry’s broad shoulders, and the muscles that moved as he searched around for whatever it was he was looking for. Louis wondered at the feeling in his stomach, and the tightness in his throat— maybe an envy, a desire to be fit; desirable like that? But Louis wasn’t _out_ of shape. If anything, he’d envy Harry’s height, and his enormous hands. Bebe teased Louis frequently for his dainty hands. Harry righted, and Louis looked away.

Harry handed Louis a paper plate, and when the microwave beeped, he cut them each hefty servings of the casserole, humming under his breath as he did. Louis felt the corner of his mouth tug up as he watched him. When he took a bite, he groaned.

“This is _incredible_.”

“Thanks!”

“You guys have a cook, or whatever?”

“Nah.”

“Man. Give your mother my compliments.”

Harry grinned, staring down at his own plate as he ate. “I made this, actually.”

“You what?” Louis reeled back. Harry smiled at him, shrugging. “Styles. Can you go five minutes without leaving me completely dumbfounded?” Harry smiled wider. “Wait,” Louis set his fork down. “Why’d you ask me to teach you how to bake?”

“I know how to cook, not bake.”

Finally the two of them went out to the yard. Everything went well for a minute, as Harry reminded Louis how to get in position. When Louis wrenched his arm back, though, Harry stepped forward. “Not quite,” he said, and he positioned Louis’s arms, first, and then dropped one hand to Louis’s waist, adjusting his stance. Louis jolted, and Harry took his hand away hurriedly. “Sorry.”

Louis shook his head, repositioned himself, and threw the ball.

“Good job!” Harry said, over enthusiastically for Louis’s actual performance, but Louis appreciated it.

They kept at it for a while, progressing, just barely, from, as Louis put it, “throwing.” As they headed in, Louis felt restless with a strange, nervous energy, and he kind of wanted to go home, order Chinese, and curl up to watch bad reality TV until whatever this was passed. But he was supposed to be befriending Harry. He wouldn’t be of any use to Bebe if all he did was _actually_ learn football from the boy. So he turned to Harry as he closed the sunroom door behind them. “You want to start those baking lessons now, then?”

Harry lit up like Burning Man. Or like Burning Man’s attendees. He nodded enthusiastically.

“Do we need to go out for ingredients?”

“I guess it depends on what we make, but we have most of the basics, I think.”

“Ok,” Louis said, nodding as they went into the kitchen. “Is there anything in particular you want to make?”

Harry shrugged. “Brownies?”

Louis laughed. “Shooting high there, huh, Harold?”

Harry grinned bashfully. “I mean, I’ve just never made anything that wasn’t, like, Betty Crocker. I don’t need to make anything complicated, as long as it’s from scratch.”

“Right.” Louis nodded. He clapped his hands together. “Well. First off. Do you have aprons?”

Harry opened a bottom drawer. Louis pulled out a classic white one with the words “kiss the cook” across the front, and donned it as he might a cape. Harry, blushing for some reason, put on a blue one with a sports team logo on the front. Louis stared at it, searching his brain, but he couldn’t recall what sport it was, let alone what the team was. “Second step,” he said finally, giving up. “Music.”

Harry stepped over to the wall, pulling out his phone and plugging it into an outlet Louis hadn’t realized was there.

“Wow,” Louis said. “This really is a _Jetsons_ house, huh?”

“More like _The Munsters._ ”

Louis cracked up. “Why would you go straight for _The Munsters_ when _The Addams_ were right there?”

“We’re not worthy of _The Addams Family._ ”

“Don’t put yourself down, Wednesday.”

Louis listed the necessary ingredients, and Harry darted around the kitchen retrieving them. As Louis started mixing them together, Harry loitering over his shoulder, Louis asked, “Where’s Gemma today?”

“She has classes.”

“Oh?” Louis asked, surprised. “I didn’t realize she was in school.”

“Yeah. UCLA.”

“Whoa! That’s not that convenient of a commute.”

“She has a dorm. She just hangs around here a lot. She’s a pest.”

Louis smirked. “I know the feeling.”

“You have siblings, right?”

“Too many to count. But one in particular fits the description you’ve just given your parents’ firstborn.” Harry chuckled.

“Which one?”

“Lottie.”

“Oh, right! She always says hi to me at the plays. She’s sweet.”

Louis’s brows raised in surprise. “I… didn’t know she knows who you are.”

“Oh,” Harry said, looking away, shrugging. “Well, we just see each other at the plays, is all.”

“Do you have friends in theater?” Harry shrugged. “I guess you have friends everywhere, huh?”

“Uh. I guess.”

Louis realized the opportunity he had, but wasn’t sure if it would be premature. He went for it anyway. “My best friend is in theater, as well. You probably know her— especially if you go to the plays.” He looked at Harry, but the taller boy still wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Bebe Rexha?” Louis asked.

Harry finally looked at him, smiling fondly. “Oh, yeah! I know Bebe, of course. She’s great.”

“She is!” Louis agreed. “I think you two would get along well.”

Harry laughed, shaking his head. “I don’t know about that. She’s too cool for me.”

That was the most baffling sentence Louis had ever heard, and so unexpected he couldn’t think of _any_ response for a good half-minute. Finally, he managed, “No she’s not?”

Harry nodded in disagreement. “Anyone remotely cool is too cool for me. And she’s _very_ cool.”

There were too many layers here of _wrong_ for Louis to know where to begin. Not that he didn’t love his best friend, but she was the dorkiest, clumsiest mess of a person he’d ever met. And Harry was _literally_ the coolest guy in school. Like, there was a poll.

“Harry,” Louis said finally, “you have enough going for you. You don’t need to be humble, too.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “Uh… what?”

“You? Uncool?”

“Louis,” Harry said. “I spend my free time reading, watching movies with my sister, and cooking Southern comfort foods. The guys on the football team don’t even bother inviting me to parties half the time.”

“But you…” Louis stared at him. “You’re the quarterback.”

Harry grinned at Louis’s confused expression. He leaned into his space. “I hate beer.”

“You’re the most popular kid in school! You’re always surrounded by people! You’ve slept with the entire girl's gymnastics team, and your, like, uncle or something is Mick Jagger!”

“Those last two are rumors. Fictitious rumors. I don’t know about that first one. And I guess I have a lot of friends, yeah. But that doesn’t make me _cool_.”

“So what does, then?”

“I don’t know. Coolness is just a… a way of being, you know? Right?”

Louis stared at Harry. The boy had flour in in his hair and he wasn’t even the one handling the ingredients. “The way you said _coolness_ just now,” Louis said, “was maybe the dorkiest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

“You _see_ ,” Harry said, holding up a hand as if in evidence. Louis shook with laughter.

“I don’t get you, Harry Styles.”

Harry seemed pleased with this statement. Louis turned back the bowl, shaking his head.

Despite Louis’s meticulous instructions, none of which should have resulted in a disaster zone of a kitchen, such _was_ the result, along with a plate of brownies, of the next hour or so. Louis scolded Harry for said disaster, but Harry just shrugged, smiling as he took a huge bite of a disproportionally large brownie (the others had suffered for it). He stuck out his tongue before he bit down. Louis couldn’t believe that. When Harry took the brownie away, the corner of his mouth was smudged with chocolate. Louis reached out his thumb, unthinkingly, and wiped it. He and Harry froze, together, as he stuck his thumb in his mouth. Harry kind of gaped at him, and Louis stared blankly back, and then he turned. “I— have to get home.” He started toward the front door.

“I’ll drive you,” Harry said.

“No— it’s Ok. I’ll get the bus.”

“The _Metro_?” Harry was saying, but Louis was already closing the door behind himself.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> why do my fics always have Some Kind of Wonderful references?

“ _Louis,_ ” Bebe groaned. “Come on. Turn it off. You’re missing half the movie.”

“I’ve only seen it eight million times,” Louis grumbled, but he pocketed his phone anyway. He’d been distracted by it all night.

“Who are you texting, anyway?”

“No one.”

“Right. So you’ve just been checking your email, right?”

Louis rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “Harry,” he said finally.

Bebe darted up. “What? Wait, really?”

Louis shrugged.

“It’s going that well?” for some reason Bebe felt nervous— and not the excited, fluttery kind of nervous— at the prospect.

“It’s Ok.” Louis pulled his legs up under him. He glanced over at her. “It’s been going great with yourself and Clare, right?”

Bebe nodded, then shrugged, then nodded again. “Yeah. Pretty— yeah. Well.”

“Cool.” Louis sighed and leaned his head back against the couch. “As always, my plan proves brilliant and successful.”

Bebe chuckled. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Our friendships with them are hardly the end goals here.”

“Right,” Louis said, and then they were both quiet.

Finally, Louis shot up. “Come on,” he said. “I’m _tired_ of this.”

“What? The movie?”

“This! The routine! Let’s do something _else_.”

Bebe stood up. “Lead the way.”

Louis grinned. “Get your fake.”

The closest club to Bebe’s apartment, and one of the most lax in the area as far as careful carding goes, was a dump, and hadn’t played a song from the last five years once in the many trips the two of them had made to the place. But it played the old music _loud_ , and it served cheap alcohol, and neither of the two of them were opposed to mostly-Britney lineups anyway.

The two of them danced close together, a few drinks in. They scream-sang along, knowing all the lyrics, and did a lot of jumping and violent swaying and arm-waving. As they stayed longer on the floor, though, they got tired out, confining their movements somewhat, Bebe moving her hips more and Louis wrapping his arms around her waist as if in support. They started to move together, and at first it was just the music, but then Bebe started to really feel her body, and Louis’s body, and the closeness of the two. His hands felt heavy on her, and she met his gaze, and his brow was furrowed, and she swallowed deep— because this felt like what happened at clubs, what anyone would expect. It felt like not a big deal, like what happened between friends, especially male and female friends, in situations like this. But it also felt _wrong._ The _awful_ kind of wrong.

They both moved away from each other— an unspoken understanding— and they went back to jumping and swaying and scream-singing, and it was fine. It was honestly fine. But Bebe couldn’t keep her mind off that moment, and why it’d hit her— seemingly both of them— so hard. They’d danced together before. It never progressed into more, like it did in the movies. They didn’t see each other that way, and not even alcohol and proximity could change that.

But just as it didn’t go further, it didn’t feel wrong, on its own. Not until this time. Why now? What had changed?

They stumbled home and into Bebe’s kitchen. Louis hoisted himself onto the counter as she scoured the fridge. When they’d collected the spoils of leftovers and overripe fruit which Bebe’s fridge offered, they carried them to Bebe’s room and, as always, pulled her mattress out of the frame, collapsing, along with it, onto the floor.

They stared up at the ceiling as they ate, talking about the play and Louis’s siblings and Bebe’s mom and Max and the weather and everything but the club and The Plan.

The next morning, Bebe texted Clare almost as soon as Louis was out the door. Last night had been strange, and something with her and Louis was a bit off. But she felt sure that the plan _was_ brilliant, and that sticking to it would make everything work out.

Bebe noted Clare’s cat-eyed sunglasses first when she pulled up, the passenger window of her Camaro down. Clare leaned over and tilted said shades down to call out to Bebe, “You coming, Pink Lady?”

Once in the car, Bebe noticed the people in the backseat. “Hello,” she said, surprised— Clare hadn’t mentioned anyone joining them.

“This is Sasha,” she said, indicating the girl behind Bebe, who wore a worn-out Britney Spears tour shirt and had half her head shaved. “And this is Yasmin,” pointing to the girl behind Clare, whose short, messy flop of hair looked like that of a pre-teen boy— a la _Stranger Things_ or the 2017 _It—_ and who wore a short-sleeved button-down printed with tiny bears.

“Hi,” Bebe said. She stared at them as Clare again showed off her stunt-driver-like skills in pulling away from Bebe’s apartment building. “Are you guys… cheerleaders?”

They both howled with laughter at this. Bebe looked over at Clare.

“They don’t even go to our school,” Clare said, shaking her head. “Sasha goes to SaMo, and Yasmin goes to MHS.”

“Oh,” Bebe said. “Right.” She didn’t think she’d seen them before. And they… didn’t look like cheerleaders. Not to, like, pigeonhole cheerleaders, but— they didn’t look like cheerleaders. “Nice to meet you.”

Neither of them said anything. Clare tapped the steering wheel along to the radio, and Bebe chewed on her bottom lip. “Where are we going?” she asked finally.

“Did I not tell you?” Clare asked, shooting a glance over at Bebe, looking somewhat panicked. Bebe shook her head. “Shit, sorry. I should have— you really might not want to come. I can turn around if you want—”

“No,” Bebe said, and Clare glanced at her as one— or maybe both— of the girls in the backseat chuckled. “I’m good with anything,” Bebe said, shrugging. “I don’t have anything going on today. I would’ve just been bored.”

“You’ll probably be bored anyway,” Clare said apologetically. “We’re going to Yasmin’s little brother’s soccer game.”

Bebe blinked, surprised. “Oh.” That… did sound boring. But she looked over at Clare again, and shrugged. “Ok.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure.”

When they got there, Clare bought Bebe a lemonade. But then Bebe made a stink about how Clare had gotten her Sour Patch Kids, so she bought Clare a lemonade _and_ a cookie. Clare laughed but accepted the gifts. Yasmin and Sasha had already sat down, and the sunlight sparkled off the glittery beads in Sasha’s corn rows. Clare sat beside her, and Bebe beside Clare. Yasmin and Sasha screamed for Yasmin’s little brother like adult white men at a boxing ring. Bebe stared at them, stunned, and Clare laughed as she took a sip of her lemonade. She pushed up her sunglasses and tucked her hair behind her ear, and Bebe noticed the little pearl earrings she was wearing. Paired with the sunglasses and her sheer black tank top and high-waisted white shorts, she looked very Audrey Hepburn, or maybe just very 60s-housewife-gone-rogue. Clare glanced over at Bebe just as she was appraising her, and before she could look away, Clare said, “I love your outfit.”

Bebe looked down at herself. She was wearing black basketball shorts and a crop top she’d cropped even further (rather sloppily,) so her bralette showed underneath. It wasn’t that she didn’t put any thought or effort into her clothes. It was just that she generally assumed she was one of the few, if not the only, person who appreciated her fashion sense. She certainly assumed the likes of Clare Uchima would spit upon the likes of her— at least clothing-wise. But Clare looked genuinely appreciative of Bebe’s outfit, and there was something else, too, in the way she took in Bebe’s clothes— or Bebe herself. Bebe swallowed the remainder of her lemonade.

“I was glad you called,” Clare said, leaning back on her hands.

“I texted,” Bebe said, and looked away.

“Yeah, well, that’s what I mean,” Clare said, glancing over at her. Bebe began to shred her styrofoam cup. “You’re cool, Bebe,” Clare said after a moment. “I like hanging out with you.”

Bebe raised her brows in surprise and looked over at Clare, who was staring at her cup. “You too,” Bebe said. She glanced over Clare’s shoulder at her friends, who were arguing over something, seemingly invested in the children’s soccer game. “Your friends seem cool, too,” Bebe said. “I… thought you mainly hung out with the cheer squad.”

“I love those girls,” Clare said, nodding. “But they don’t… you know, we don’t have everything in common. If you catch my drift,” Clare smirked at her. Bebe did not catch her drift, and in fact was very confused as to what Clare meant. Nonetheless Clare continued as if Bebe were following, “Which isn’t necessary, obviously, but it’s cool to have friends who get it, you know?”

Bebe stared ahead, utterly bewildered, but she nodded as if in understanding. Clare stretched her legs out in front of her, and Bebe stared at a little birth mark on her right calf. She had a sudden impulse to reach out and brush it with her fingertip.

“Where’s Louis today?” Clare asked, startling Bebe out of her reverie, and when she processed the question, she went completely stiff.

“Home, probably, I don’t know,” Bebe said, brow furrowed. “Why?”

“He’s your best bud, right?” Clare asked, tilting her head toward her shoulder. “Your other half?”

Bebe’s brow stayed wrinkled. “Yeah,” she said. “Well, I wouldn’t put it like that, but.”

“I envy you guys so much, sometimes.”

Bebe stared at Clare. “You what?”

Clare shrugged. “Like I said, I love the cheer girls. And it’s not like they don’t love me too, or anything, or don’t accept me. But sometimes I still feel fake around them, you know? Like I’m just being who they want me to be, or doing what they expect me to do, because it makes them happy, or because it’s easier, or whatever. Which, like— I don’t know if it’s even true. I don’t _really_ think I’d be much different if I—” she shrugged. “But sometimes I do wish I could just be, like, unapologetically myself— just totally authentic. Like you guys. You’re so cool.” She grinned at Bebe. “And really talented, too! I’ve seen the plays— you’re a regular Julie Andrews.”

Bebe laughed at this bizarre choice of actress comparison, but her forehead stayed tight, as she hadn’t followed anything else Clare had been saying. It was Bebe, after all, who felt vaguely fake— sure, she dressed how she wanted, and she didn’t go to parties she didn’t want to go to because of “peer pressure” or whatever. But she still felt like life was a performance for her, in some ways. Clare— even as she did all the things, and dressed in the way, that Bebe sometimes thought of as _fake_ — still, Clare’s words left Bebe feeling deeply unsettled. Like a chair with a single leg kicked out. Finally, she just said, “Thanks.”

When the game ended, Sasha and Yasmin went with Yasmin’s family, and Clare and Bebe back toward Clare’s car. “Want to come over?” Clare asked. “I just have to work on the car and whatever today, but you said you’d be bored at home—”

“Work on the car?”

Clare nodded.

Bebe stuttered out, “You— work on— cars?”

“I want to be a mechanic,” Clare said. “Much to my family’s chagrin.”

“I’ll come over,” Bebe said.

At her house, Clare pulled the car into the garage and let them inside through a side door. It wasn’t an enormous house— at least not by the standards of the area— but the minimalist interior decorating looked expensive. Everywhere, there were little knickknacks, Japanese figurines and good luck charms. Clare poured them iced tea and made them sandwiches before disappearing upstairs. She came back in an oversized Guns & Roses tee and dirty jeans.

“Mechanic’s uniform?” Bebe asked around a bite of her sandwich. Clare grinned and nodded, and they went back to the garage. Bebe felt like she was in _Some Kind of Wonderful_ as Clare grabbed a toolbox and loosed a car creeper from the wall. Louis had always said she looked like Watts.

Bebe stared idly at Clare’s legs, sticking out from under the car, as Clare hummed to herself. She thought about Watts— about Mary Stuart Masterson, and the look she got, staring at Eric Stoltz in that dirty jumpsuit. The biggest criticism Bebe always got, in workshops, in class, in rehearsals, was that there was something missing when she was performing being in love. Even when she was acting opposite Louis, who she knew better than anyone in the world, who was her best friend, who she’d do anything for— “You’re almost there. But Bebe, it’s in the eyes. _Look_ at him as you would a boy you love. A boy you can’t stop thinking about, a boy who makes you feel nervous and calm all at once. Do you know anyone like that, Bebe?”

“Would you hand me the wrench?”

Bebe jumped down from the dirty metal countertop and complied. Her hand brushed Clare’s in the exchange, and she flexed her fingers as she turned her gaze outside the garage, where the sun was setting, casting shadows on the asphalt of Clare’s street. She thought about the first time she’d kissed Louis, for a middle school _Midsummer Night’s Dream._ It was both of their first kisses, and it was almost as bad as the play itself. They’d kissed other times, for other plays, and once on a very lame dare. They got better, but they were never _good_. Bebe assumed, fairly, that it was because they were just friends; because they didn’t see each other like that. But she’d kissed other people, by now— not many, but she’d had a couple of very-short-term boyfriends, and had acted opposite love interests other than Louis. Staring at the street, and then at Clare’s legs again, (Clare was full singing under the car, now,) she really thought about it. That she’d never once had a kiss like Watts and Keith, in that garage. That she’d never kissed someone and _felt_ something.

Clare was singing “Good Vibrations” when she finally wheeled out from under the Camaro. Bebe, still standing close by, looked down at her, and Clare looked up and beamed. Bebe felt a pull in the center of her chest, and she felt herself leaning down. Then Clare stood, her back to Bebe as she wiped her hands on an oily rag.

“Stay for dinner?” Clare asked.

“Sure.”

 

*

 

Bebe laughed when she walked up to her locker, where Louis was waiting for her. “We should really coordinate this,” she said, “I’ve been waiting at your locker for the last ten minutes.”

Louis moved aside so she could get her books. His phone buzzed in his back pocket; he waited to check it— he already knew it would be from Harry.

Harry had started it, texting him a picture of Gemma, her face absolutely covered in brownie. Louis had sent him a photo of Tom Brady’s body with his own face sloppily pasted on. They’d gotten into a wordless battle of bad edits, and since then had been texting fairly regularly— about the movies Harry was watching with Gemma, about Louis’s dog, Clifford, being terrified of the gold-body-painted street performers, about what Louis would teach Harry to bake next, about the new Freddie Mercury biopic, about The Rolling Stones.

“I was thinking,” Louis said as Bebe closed her locker, “that we should go to the football game. Friday night.”

Bebe raised an eyebrow, looking at Louis. Louis shrugged. “You know. Because Harry and Clare will be there, obviously.”

“Right,” Bebe said, nodding. “Good idea!”

Louis grinned, relieved. “I thought so. It’s all very _Twelfth Night_ , isn’t it? This will be perfect.”

Bebe nodded. She glanced over at Louis. “Maybe we could go out for food, or something, after,” Bebe said. “As a group. If they’re interested, I mean.” She frowned. “I guess Harry will probably be at an afterparty, though—”

“No,” Louis said, shaking his head. “Harry doesn’t really party much.”

“Really?”

Louis shook his head again, in affirmation. “What about Clare? Won’t she be going out with the squad?”

Bebe shook her head, too. “She doesn’t spend that much time with them outside of school and practices. She has friends at other schools, actually.”

“Oh, huh.”

They looked at each other for a moment.

“Ok,” Louis said. “I’ll ask Harry if he’s keen.”

Bebe nodded. “I’ll ask Clare.”

They parted ways.

Louis didn’t have a chance to ask Harry during the school day, so he took the excuse of a bathroom/water break at rehearsal to steal down to the football field when he knew practice would be wrapping up. He saw a couple of guys walking out of the locker room, already changed, and hoped he hadn’t missed him. The moment he actually walked in, though, he hoped he _had_ _—_ it didn’t occur to him how weird it was to go looking for someone in a locker room, where people were _changing_ and _showering_ , until he was already inside.

He spotted the cheaply-dyed-blond hair of Niall Horan and walked toward it, knowing Harry would probably be nearby. Everyone knew Harry, Niall, and Liam Payne were best friends— more than one Halloween they’d dressed as the three musketeers. It wasn’t very original, but it was fairly endearing.

Liam spotted Louis first, raising his eyebrows. “Hey, Louis,” he said, and Niall turned around, his eyes like tea saucers.

“Hi,” Louis said, beyond uncomfortable standing before the two partially-dressed football players. “Has Harry left already?”

“He’s showering,” Niall said, and he grinned cheekily. Louis furrowed his brow.

“I’ll wait outside for him, if you don’t mind telling him I’m—”

“You can wait here,” Niall said, clapping his shoulder fraternally. “No problem. He’ll just be a minute.”

“It’s great you guys are becoming friends,” Liam said. Louis blinked at him. Was this an assumption based on the fact that Louis was looking for him, or had Harry been talking about him? Niall nudged Liam and gave him a look. Liam winced. “Um… I just mean…” Liam trailed off. Niall rolled his eyes to the ceiling and Louis waited, but Liam didn’t finish his sentence.

“Louis!” Harry came up from behind him, and Louis turned around, feeling his entire face go hot like he’d been splashed with boiling water as Harry grinned at him, a towel wrapped around his waist and the sandals on his feet his only apparel.

Louis looked at the ground as Harry walked up between Liam and Niall, opening his locker.

“Um, hi,” Louis said.

“Hi!” Harry gestured to the other guys with the hand he wasn't using to keep his towel up. “You know Liam, Niall, right?”

“Yea, ‘course,” Louis said, keeping his gaze fixed hard on the stained concrete floor. Niall smirked.

“His eyes are up here, Tomlinson.”

“ _Niall_ ,” Liam smacked the fake-blond hard, and Louis somehow felt his face go even redder, now staring fixedly at the wall somewhere around Harry’s head.

“Um,” Louis said quickly as Harry gaped at Niall. “Harry, I was just, uh, going to ask, um. Bebe and I are going to the game Friday.”

“Oh?” Harry looked at him, finally, and Louis forced himself to meet his gaze, feeling kind of light-headed. “You guys never come to games!”

Louis shrugged. He was thinking of making some bad joke about school spirit, or another _Grease-_ related excuse, but nothing came out. Finally, he said what he’d come to say. “We’re going to Swingers after. If you want to join.”

Niall dropped his self-amused grin and Liam his stressed forehead-wrinkles. Both stared at Louis as if stunned, and then looked at Harry. He nodded, one hard, quick nod. “Sure,” he said. He side-eyed his friends, who looked hurriedly away, schooling their expressions.

Louis felt like he had turned to the middle of an episode of a soap he’d never seen. Confused, red in the face, and somewhat panicked, he nodded. “Ok. See you then.” And he turned and hurried out of the locker room.

Friday, Ms. Lonsdale cut them some slack, ending rehearsal at 5. Louis biked home to get dressed, promising to go straight to Bebe’s when he was done. He had every intention of hurrying, but when he got home— and past his gaggle of siblings, jumping on and pulling at him— he stared at his open closet for what felt like an eternity. First he put on dark blue dress pants, which he immediately took off, before even trying to pair them with a top— he was going to a _football_ game, after all. Then he put on plain jeans a t shirt. But that made him look like _anyone_. He tried about five more combinations before landing on a button down with his red jeans and suspenders. He rolled up the sleeves and mussed his hair, chewing on his lower lip.

Lottie popped her head in and whistled. “Where are _you_ off to?”

“Football game.”

Lottie looked at him like he was crazy.

“What?”

“ _You’re_ going to the _game_?”

“Yeah, so?”

Lottie put her hands up in mock surrender and walked away. Louis shot his reflection a final glance before sighing in frustration and grabbing his wallet.

Bebe’s mom opened the door for Louis, much to his surprise. She wasn’t usually home this early.

“She’s in her room,” she said, turning away as he toed his shoes off. Louis knocked once before entering Bebe’s room. It looked like she’d emptied her drawers onto the ceiling fan and turned it on. Louis forged a path through the mess, sitting down on the bed.

“I can’t decide what to wear,” Bebe said, standing in front of her open closet in her undergarments.

“My impeccable sleuthing skills did lead me to that conclusion, yes.” Louis arched a brow at her, crossing his arms over his chest. Bebe sighed loudly.

“I don’t know, Lou! We don’t _do_ this stuff, we don’t _go_ to these things. I’m in the dark.”

“It is something of a no-fly zone for us,” Louis agreed. “Why don’t you just wear what you wear to school?”

Bebe gave him a pointed look. “Like _you_ are?”

Louis opened his mouth in protest, but promptly closed it. Bebe turned back to her closet. “All right,” she said. “All right. Hold on.” She grabbed a pair of ripped black jeans from the floor, tugging them up in an impressive struggle. Then she pulled a red flannel from a drawer, putting it on, open, over her black bralette. She turned to Louis, holding her arms open for appraisal. He stood and put his hands on his hips, tutting aloud as he tilted his head in appraisal. She rolled her eyes at him, and then her eyes went wide. “Hold up! I’ve got it.” She pulled a sheer white top off a hanger, discarding the flannel to pull it on. It was skin-tight. She grabbed the flannel off the ground and tied it around her waist. She looked at Louis again, grinning wide.

“ _Yes_ ,” Louis said, nodding in approval.

“Ok,” Bebe said nervously. “Let’s go.”

Bebe’s mom dropped them off; the plan was to take Harry’s Range Rover to Swingers after the game. Louis bought two cups of hot chocolate and followed Bebe onto the bleachers. It was mild chaos all around them, a hundred conversations happening all at once, occasional shouting as people looked for their friends among the crowd, feedback bursting from the announcer’s speaker as presumably mics were checked. The cheerleaders were already on the field, their pom-poms in the air, as if they’d been there all day, just waiting for everyone else to arrive. The band was starting to play as Louis and Bebe found seats.

Louis turned to Bebe and shouted over the din, “I feel like we’re on _Friday Night Lights._ ”

“At least we’re not in Texas,” Bebe shouted back. Her gaze was fixed on the field, and Louis followed her line of sight to Clare, who was beaming wide out at the crowd, orange streaks of paint, matching her uniform, on each of her upturned cheeks. She thrust her pom-poms in the air and cheered. Louis glanced at Bebe again, about to say something, but then the announcer’s voice came on, letting them know the players were making their way onto the field. Louis turned his gaze as the boys started to run out, following them, seeking Harry out. When the announcer called his number, and he ran out onto the field, the crowd lost it— like they’d never seen him before. Like he was a real celebrity. Louis couldn’t see his face, or even much of his body, really, with those shoulder pads and what have you, but there was a confidence, a joy, in the way Harry jogged backwards, waving at the crowd. He even blew a couple of kisses, making Louis laugh and shake his head.

“The audacity,” he said, leaning over to Bebe.

“What?” she shouted back. She looked over at him, and then back out at the field. “Oh! I didn’t see him come out!”

Louis furrowed his brow at her, but then looked back at Harry, who was in a huddle with the other players now. He seemed to be talking. They all watched him, were all listening to him— he commanded their attention. Louis fidgeted in his seat.

The game began, and though Louis had no idea what was happening at any given moment— his few lessons with Harry, shockingly, had yet to improve his knowledge of the game in any meaningful way— he found himself engaged. The way Harry moved, the way he held himself when he wasn’t moving, the rapidity with which his body seemed to make decisions; though really it must be following decisions made long moments before by his mind, intentionally, at the last possible moment— it was the perfect balance of choreography and improv. And Louis could rarely make out his face, but in a moment where Harry turned so he was fully facing the stands, as if he were taking a moment, trying to search someone out of the crowd, though really his eyes weren’t cast in that direction— his expression was so intense, so focused, that Louis felt himself gripping the bench where he sat.

“I’m dying!” Bebe shouted to him. Louis nodded in agreement. “This is so boring!” Bebe added. Louis looked at her, stunned. She looked back at him. “What?”

At halftime, the cheerleaders made their way to the middle of the field. Louis stood. “I’m gonna go pee,” he said. “You coming?”

Bebe looked at him like he was crazy. “ _Now?_ ”

“I’ve been holding it the last hour!”

“Go ahead. I’m good.” Louis shrugged and went ahead.

When he came back, he nearly ran into Niall as he skirted past the locker rooms. “Louis!” Niall shouted, grinning wide.

“Hey, Niall.”

“Saw you with your friend up there,” Niall motioned with his chin to the bleachers, evidently meaning to indicate Bebe.

“Yeah. Bebe Rexha.”

Niall nodded. “She’s cool. You guys tight?”

“Yeah.”

Niall gave Louis a look. “She your girlfriend?”

“What? I— no.” Was Niall interested in her? Would she be interested in Niall… instead of Harry? “Why?” he shouted, just as the other players started to stream out of the locker room.

“Not for me,” Niall said, starting to back away. Harry burst past, missing them as he jogged, focused, back onto the field. Niall grinned and pointed with his thumb at the boy. “For him.” And he ran out to join the rest.

Louis felt suddenly nauseated, pressing a hand to his stomach as he made his way back to his seat. Bebe glanced over at him as he sat.

“You OK, dude?”

“I don’t know, I feel kind of sick.”

“If you were gonna get sick, we should have at least had one of those toxic hot dogs.”

Louis forced a laugh. Then, too quietly, as the whistle was blown, he said, “I think Harry’s interested in you.”

“What?” Bebe leaned in to hear him better.

“I think Harry’s interested in you,” he said, louder. She stared at him, then out at the field— at Harry. Louis closed his eyes, afraid he might vomit. “Oh,” she said. “That’s… great.”

“Water!” Louis shouted at a passing vendor. He forked over the cash and took long swallows.

“Louis, if you feel sick, you should take short sips,” Bebe said.

“I’m fine,” Louis said.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update took so long!! I just graduated from college and moved across the country and also Becky Albertalli books exist so writing is sometimes hard to make time for ya know? lol

Louis and Harry were already in the car, but Bebe stayed outside so Clare could find them. “She should know my car,” Harry said, which made Bebe grimace at the possible implications— but nonetheless, she thought it would be better to wait. Harry wasn’t the only kid at school with a black Range Rover, after all.

Bebe watched the families and students milling off the field impatiently. Two groups parted ways, then, and Clare stepped out from behind them, like something out of a movie. She was still in her cheer uniform, but she’d taken down her ponytail— her hair was wet, probably she’d ducked it under a locker room shower, and loose around her shoulders. She raised a hand in a wave as she got closer, and Bebe waved meekly back.

“Holy shit,” Clare said when was closer. “You look _hot_.”

Bebe felt like she’d been dipped in red paint, hot absolutely everywhere from the compliment. She didn’t have a lot of girl friends— she wasn’t really used to the way they praised each other; the joking lustfulness there. “You too,” Bebe mumbled.

“Well, yeah, years of patriarchal design went into making sure _these_ things make high school girls appease the adult male gaze,” Clare said, pulling out her skirt. When Bebe blanched, Clare laughed. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m all about appropriating the tools of the oppressor for my own sapphic purposes.” Bebe continued to stare blankly. Clare smirked. “ _Thank you_ ,” she said.

“Right,” Bebe managed, opening the door for Clare, who laughed again as she climbed in.

Harry blasted Queen so loud in the car that there was no danger of awkward silence, and conversation on the way to the door of the restaurant was made up mostly of whether their parking spot was decent or not. When they’d sat in a booth— Harry and Louis on one side, Clare and Bebe on the other— silence fell as they perused their menus. Bebe felt like she was watching the scene from outside of her own body. She and Louis weren’t _totally_ antisocial, sometimes they went out with the other theater kids, or whatever. But she’d never in her life even _pictured_ them in a situation like this; out for dinner with the two most popular kids in school, just after attending a football game. They ordered milkshakes first, and as they settled in, Harry sort of turned in his seat, one arm up, behind Louis, and asked what he thought of the game. Bebe could tell— he was asking _Louis_ , not the table at large. Bebe felt suddenly nervous, as the two of them started in, Louis using hand gestures to emphasize just how little he understood of what was going on, Harry cracking up and leaning ever closer, like he couldn’t make a point if there was any space between the two of them. They were totally ignoring herself and Clare— which didn’t leave much room for Bebe to do anything other than turn towards her. As soon as she did— just slightly— Clare grinned. Her head was resting on her palm, and it seemed that she’d been looking at Bebe. Bebe swallowed hard.

“You were great,” Bebe said. “You know— with your— um. Cheering.”

“Thanks,” Clare said. “I know it doesn’t look like much, and everyone’s there for the football players, obviously. But it is pretty tough.”

“I don’t think it doesn’t look like much! I can’t imagine doing half the stuff you guys do. I get exhausted just watching you.”

Clare grinned. “Not much of an athlete?”

“Um, not much of a conscious human being.” Clare laughed.

“You guys do all that choreography and everything, though,” she argued. “For the musicals.”

“I practice as little as humanly possible. They have words with me about it, but I’m set in my ways.”

Clare’s mouth quirked up. “I like that about you.”

Bebe fisted her hands in her lap.

The milkshakes arrived, and the four of them turned, in toward the table itself, to drink them. This resulted in Harry and Clare looking at each other, and almost immediately bursting into laughter. Bebe and Louis sent each other looks of complete bafflement. “Shut up,” Harry said.

“ _I_ didn’t say anything,” Clare said.

“Like you can talk!” Harry protested.

“I’m _not_ talking!” and they both cracked up again, Harry casting Louis abashed sidelong glances. When Clare looked at Bebe again, she just smiled. Bebe, confused, smiled back.

From there on out, the four of them talked more as a group. Bebe felt strange talking to Harry, who she’d been so caught up on all year. He was surprisingly easy to talk to— she didn’t feel nervous at all. She’d always known he was sweet, but she didn’t expect herself to play off of him so easily. Louis and Clare were getting on well, too— they seemed to be having a battle to see who could use more hand motions. Bebe felt weird, watching them talk. Like there was something off, or wrong about it. Maybe because it hadn’t been long enough? Maybe she felt the plan needed more time to really work? 

They didn’t linger long after eating— Clare invited them all to a party at Yasmin’s house. Apparently Yasmin had a huge guest house, and her parents gave her free reign of it, as long as people didn’t go in the main house. Bebe remembered Louis mentioning that Harry wasn’t much of a party person, but he agreed readily enough. Clare sat in the front seat on the drive over, directing Harry on where to go, and Bebe and Louis kept looking at each other in the backseat, as they were wont to do, always silently communicating. Only Bebe couldn’t understand, just then, what Louis was saying. And she wasn’t quite sure what she was saying back.

The music was loud, already, when they parked behind a row of cars on Yasmin’s street. There was a huge amount of space between each house on this road, though, so noise complaints seemed unlikely. There were lion-head doorknockers outside the guest house, but Clare ignored them in favor of turning the huge brass knob. Clare took Bebe’s hand as they squeezed into the fray, and Bebe reached behind her four Louis’s.

“I don’t recognize anyone,” Bebe yelled to Clare.

“Me neither,” Clare said, grinning over her shoulder. They pushed through to a kitchen, and Clare pointed, “I stand corrected.”

Bebe followed her finger to where Yasmin was pressed up against the wall by the fridge, her tongue deep down the throat of a girl in a fishnet bodysuit and a schoolgirl skirt. Bebe stared at them, stunned into motionlessness. Fortunately, Clare had let go of her hand anyway, and was now returning with drinks for herself, Louis, and Harry. Harry took his and immediately started chugging. Louis stared at him. “I thought you hated beer.” Harry shrugged and grinned. Bebe and Louis slowly drank, continually glancing at each other, as Harry and Clare shout-chatted over the music. Just at the time that Clare had replaced all of their drinks, “Havana” came on, and Harry started moving his hips— Clare cheered for, or _at_ him, and Bebe looked at Louis. He was staring at Harry with a look Bebe had never seen before. She felt kind of weightless, unanchored, being suddenly so illiterate in the reading of Louis Tomlinson. It wasn’t a problem she’d ever had before.

Then she couldn’t see Louis at all, because Clare had put the hand she wasn’t holding her drink with on Bebe’s waist. Bebe, who was already unmoving, went stiff as stone, and she felt Clare’s cup on the small of her back, nudging her forward. She glanced back, and Clare grinned at her, and kind of kicked her ankles forward, gently, before directing her hips into swaying with her hand, until the two of them were, somehow, dancing. Bebe, a legendary lightweight, felt unreal, moving with Clare— she was convinced they were dancing in perfect time with the beat, and she felt unbelievably sexy, and Clare’s thumb dipped under the flannel around her waist, and Bebe tilted her head back and started singing along, and she and Harry made eye contact and, beaming, sang at each other. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Louis downing his second beer, one hand gripping the kitchen island behind him. Then he grabbed Harry’s hand and pulled him in further, and Clare whooped loudly and pushed Bebe so they were following behind them, until the four of them were in the thick of the crowd, and the music changed again and what seemed like hundreds of teenagers were all screaming at the top of their lungs along to the single line they all knew of whatever Shawn Mendes song this was. Bebe was moving all on her own now, laughing hysterically, and as the chorus cycled back around, she turned just as Louis did, so they met eyes, and they gripped hands as they screamed along, laughing in each other’s faces. It didn’t feel like what high school parties always looked like in movies or on TV— it just felt like the dance parties the two of them would have, sometimes with Louis’s little sisters, when Jay would let them use the speakers to blast their bad 80s pop, holding hairbrushes the wrong way round and jumping up and down. Only instead of all of Louis’s siblings, there were countless drunk teenagers around them, some of them making out, most of them laughing, none of them seeming worried about looking completely, utterly ridiculous. Bebe leaned in toward Clare. “I like your friends,” she shouted.

“I thought you would,” Clare shouted back.

 

*

 

As the night went on, the party sort of wound down, so the music was more mellow, and the rooms weren’t quite so crowded. The sweat on Louis’s back had dried, and he followed Clare into a kind of living room space, or maybe a kind of home theater. A long couch lined two walls, facing a huge flat screen. The whole space smelled like Doritos— and beer, of course. There was a game of Cards Against Humanity happening around the coffee table. Clare and Bebe slid to the floor, but Harry motioned for Louis to join him on the couch.

Harry was kicked out of the game after very few hands. Louis’d never seen anyone kicked out of Cards Against Humanity. But Harry’s cards were consistently wholesome, and Clare consistently pointed out which cards were his, until he was booted. Harry laughed, shrugging, and leaned back. Louis wondered how many other high school quarterbacks in the history of the world had been kicked out of Cards Against Humanity games for being too lame and pure.

Louis was pretty drunk. He only half paid attention to the game, watching Harry out of the corner of his eye as he started talking to a guy with blue hair and earrings. The guy was smiling at Harry, this big smile, and his cheeks were flushed. Louis watched as the guy’s fingernails— painted black— brushed Harry’s bicep. He felt the alcohol in his stomach swoosh like he was a jug being swung in a jaunty hand. “Harry,” he said, and Harry turned to him, but he didn’t say anything else. After a minute, the guy with the blue hair got up and walked away.

Bebe stood up and leaned over Louis. “I’ll be back,” she said, and walked away. Louis watched Clare watch her walk away. He felt the swoosh of the alcohol again. Everything was kind of confused.

Clare shuffled around until she was resting between Harry’s legs on the floor. She arched around towards him, and he leaned forward. They talked in near-whispers, so Louis couldn’t make out what they were saying. He wondered if they _were_ dating, after all. It didn’t really make any sense, that thought. They’d made no indications to merit this conclusion at any other point during the night. But watching them, for a moment, he wondered what he was doing there. What Bebe was doing there. What this _plan_ even was. 

By the time the game was over, Clare was declaring that she was sober enough to drive. Several people she apparently knew demanded rides, but Bebe kept protesting that Clare shouldn’t drive. Finally Clare held a finger to Bebe’s lips, stood up, and returned with someone named Jon, who she declared was completely sober. He looked it. Harry handed him his keys over the back of the sofa, not even looking the guy in the eyes. Louis laughed, but followed the rest of the group out of the room.

Somehow, though it was his car, Harry was the last person to get in— and, in fact, said car was out of seating by the time he struggled to fit.

“Hold on, hold on,” Louis said, getting out. “We’ll double buckle. You get in first.”

“No— wait,” Harry said, but got in first anyway, and Louis chuckled. He started to climb in beside Harry, but Harry held up a hand, which he then put, along with his other enormous paw, around Louis’s waist. Louis didn’t quite process, until Harry had released him and pulled the door shut behind them, that he was sitting in Harry’s lap.

“Everyone good?” Jon called out. A chant of agreement went out over the car. Louis didn’t feel that good, but he nodded his assent. Ariana Grande came on over the radio, and a drunk girl he didn’t know grabbed onto Louis, screaming, before bursting into song with her friend. Louis squirmed away from her, toward the window, and kind of back toward Harry. He was about to turn his head to apologize to Harry, when he felt something beneath him, and went completely still.

He was drunk, but he wasn’t _that_ drunk. He knew what that was.

What the fuck? What the fuck?

Harry’s house was closest, and he flung his car door open forcefully before they’d even pulled to a stop, and threw himself out from underneath Louis like a magician whipping off a tablecloth without disturbing any of the table settings. Only Louis was absolutely disturbed. Harry ran up to his house without waving or yelling or anything, and several drunk people laughed and made jokes about him needing to vomit.

Harry had gotten a _hard-on_. From _Louis_ _sitting in his lap_.

But he was drunk, right? It was probably just a physical response, it didn’t mean anything. That made sense, right? Alcohol gets rid of your inhibitions, or whatever— everything is just instinctual, there’s nothing logical about it— and anyway, Louis’d gotten boners at basically nothing before. He knew they weren’t always a direct cause-and-effect, or one that made sense. It wasn’t always a matter of actual attraction.

But what if it _was_?

Bebe got out with Louis. She was sleeping over, of course— he’d forgotten. Should he tell her? Wasn’t he kind of obligated to tell her?

“That was so fun,” Bebe said. “Are parties always that _fun_?”

He wouldn’t tell her. Why would he tell her? It was nothing. It was definitely nothing.

“They’re definitely not,” Louis said. “My guess is, that was an extreme outlier. Like the guy who eats thousands of spiders.”

“What’s that guy’s deal, anyway?”

“Maybe he’s getting weird revenge on his vegan parents.”

Lottie was awake in the living room, FaceTiming her boyfriend with headphones in. She waved at them as they clicked the door shut behind them as quietly as possible.

“I don’t get that,” Bebe said as they tiptoed to Louis’s room. “Can’t she just text him? What, she can’t go a few hours without seeing his face?”

“According to her, they’re ‘practicing for college.’”

“ _That’s_ a ways off.”

“Yes, but they’re soulmates, Bebe. Love written in the stars, and all that.”

“Have you warned her what happens to star-written lovers?”

“All too many times. She tells me to ‘fuck off,’ in so many words.”

“So those exact words?”

“Precisely.”

Sprawled on Louis’s mattress on the floor, staring up at his glow-in-the-dark stars, they shared a pair of headphones, listening to that instrumental song from the _Little Miss Sunshine_ soundtrack, the one that always made Louis feel restless, somehow calm and uneasy all at once— like he’d been searching for something, and he’d finally found it, but he couldn’t reach it yet. Like he realized he needed to go somewhere, and the realizing had saved him somehow— but he still wasn’t actually _going_ ; he still wasn’t _there_. Bebe tapped out the violin plucks on the palm of his hand.

“Louis?” she said. He closed his hand around hers to indicate he’d heard. She was quiet a long moment. Then, “Did you have fun tonight?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I did.”

He thought about Harry’s movements on the football field. He thought about the way Harry turned to him in the booth at Swingers. He thought about all of them dancing. He thought about Harry getting a boner with Louis in his lap.

He felt his stomach writhing, coiling, knotting itself up, like it was a snake in his hands. He imagined it might bite him, and make him bleed from the inside out.

“You and Clare were getting along really well,” Bebe said, after a while. Her tone was strange, and the statement was so completely unrelated to any of the chaos of _Woyzeck-_ like nonsense thoughts racing around Louis’s mind that he found himself completely at a loss for what to say.

“Louis?”

“Yeah.”

Bebe yawned. “Good night. Love you.”

“Love you too,” Louis said. He thought about Clare, dancing in front of him, resting a hand on his shoulder at one point— wearing her cheerleader uniform. Like a fantasy, right? Like _his_ fantasies?

He picked up the discarded headphones and listened to that DeVotchKa song over and over until he fell asleep.

 

*

 

Bebe lied on top of her covers, blasting “Boys” by Charli XCX and thinking about Louis saying that Harry Styles was interested in her.

Harry _Styles_. The _quarterback_. The _most popular guy in school_. The most _beautiful_ guy in school. Interested in _her_.

Why was she crying?

It wasn’t, like, sobs, or anything. But she’d woken up, gotten dressed, put on her music, and lied back down. And lying there, listening to that song on repeat, and thinking about Harry Styles, Harry Styles liking her, Harry Styles asking her out, going out with Harry Styles. Kissing Harry Styles. Harry Styles peeling off her shirt, putting his hands on her waist. Out of the sides of her eyes, like she was leaking— a slow, steady stream of tears.

It didn’t feel like happy tears— she didn’t feel elated, or full of butterflies. She didn’t feel relieved, or nervous. She couldn’t tell what she was feeling, really. But she just kept crying, like she hadn’t turned a faucet off all the way.

She accidentally pressed something on her phone, and the music changed. “Havana” came over the speakers, and she laughed and pressed her palms so hard into her closed eyelids she thought she might blind herself. She sat up and texted Clare.

_you want to go to the boardwalk?_

_interesting proposal, but i raise you— Gizmos?_

_i literally forgot gizmos exists. oh my holy saints??_

_ill pick u up?_

_ill b ready in 10_

_ill b there in 20_

Bebe chose a full t-shirt, because she was known to spill milk on herself when she ate cereal, and milk stains on bare skin isn’t a great look. Then she put on her set-painting overalls, Adidas sneakers, and a backwards Snapback. A voice in the back of her mind kept telling her she should invite Louis. After all, they’d already made contact, right? What was the point of hanging out with Clare alone anymore? But she didn’t text him. She waited until Clare texted _here_ , and then she ran downstairs.

Clare clearly didn’t have a history of milk-spillage. She was wearing this sheer white button-down— pearl buttons— over a black bra. She was also wearing black silk dress pants and red heels, but it took Bebe’s eyes a long time to get there.

Bebe made a stupid joke regarding the spilling of milk she would be doing, but shecouldn’t even hear what she was saying, she could only listen for the laugh she hoped would come. And Clare didn’t let her down. She cracked up, and Bebe smiled wide, feeling warm, though it was a muggy day, the sky like a fogged-up mirror. 

Louis and Bebe had gone to Gizmos Cereal Bar about a thousand times when it first opened, but eventally, as happens, they got lazy, staying closer to their respective apartments, until they forgot Gizmos was even there. Bebe got a Horchata Bowl and Clare got a Peanut Butter Cup, and they walked to her car. Bebe thought they were gonna get in, maybe eat inside or drive somewhere, but Clare pulled herself up onto the hood, crossing her legs under her. She wasn’t as milk-savvy as her outfit led Bebe to believe— milk was dribbling down her chin before Bebe even climbed up to join her. She stuck her tongue way out to lick the milk off.

“I’m one of those people who drinks the leftover milk,” she said. “Just so you know.”

Bebe never understood how grossed out some people got by that, but she wasn’t about to let an opportunity for dramatics go wasted, so she fake-gagged and screwed her face up into the most hideous look of pure disgust she could manage. She’d made it at Louis before. He’d told her she was going to die alone.

Clare almost spilled her cereal all over herself, she was laughing so hard. “That fucking face!” she said, wheezing. Bebe grinned at her. “No, no!” she said, pointing at Bebe. “Make it again!” Bebe did, and Clare set her cereal down beside her so she could fold in half, shaking hard with the force of her laughter. Bebe stared at her, just absolutely beaming, feeling that warmth again, and this tightness in her chest and this wriggling in her stomach. Clare looked up, gave her this smile, this unreal smile, and there was milk on her chin, and Bebe was so wrong about milk on skin being a bad look. It was _such a good look._ It was all she could do not to lean forward and lick it off of her. Clare quirked a brow at her. And then Bebe felt like a fucking idiot. Because _duh._ Like… _duh_.

Bebe was _into_ her.

It was like that moment as she was walking out of the classroom, right after a test, and her friend was like, “What’d you put for number four?” and she told them her wrong answer, and they told her their right answer, and she was like, holy crap, really? How did she do that? She _got_ this stuff. She _studied._ That should have been _easy_. But she missed it. Somehow, she missed it.

But Bebe couldn’t be into Clare. Not even because she was a girl— although _that_ was a _lot_ , which she would deal with later, probably, at some point— but because _Louis._ This whole plan was Louis’s idea. Bebe wouldn’t even be hanging out with Clare right now if Louis hadn’t asked Bebe to befriend her so that she could _introduce_ them. What kind of crappy friend is like, _actually, scratch this whole plan you came up with and I readily agreed to, ‘cause now I’m actually into the person I said I’d set you up with, sorry._

Not that it even mattered. Clare was obviously straight. But like, so was Bebe, five minutes ago. Man, what the hell? How was this happening?

Clare was still smiling at her, though. Like, that was all she was doing— like that was a full-body activity, and she couldn’t multitask. Bebe’d seen the shows, the crappy movies— the sexuality crises, the panic, the horror, the despair— _I can’t be gay! Oh, anything but that!_

But Clare was smiling at her, and she was just… smiling back.

 

*

 

Clare had asked him to hang out.

Clare Uchima; future Victoria’s Secret Angel; a Helen of Troy of her own rite; the kind of girl Sofia Coppola made movies about, or _because_ of. Had asked him— Louis Tomlinson, drama geek, of hobbit stature, and exactly zero romantic history— to hang out.

A part of him was jumping up and down, screaming and laughing. That part of him wanted to call or text Bebe— _it WORKED! IT ACTUALLY WORKED!_

Evidently that part of him was not the part in charge of his hands, because he wasn’t opening the door.

A long pause went by, and then there was another knock. Clare reeled back when he opened the door, obviously caught off guard by the belatedly-fast response. “Hey!” she smiled at him. “You ready?”

“Sure,” he said, checking his pocket for his wallet before closing the door behind him. He followed her down and out to her car. Which he gaped at.

“Greased lightning, right?” she grinned. He looked down at her four-inch— at _least_ — heels.

“You drive that?”

“Oui.”

“In _those_?”

“If you’re not dedicated to the aesthetic, what _are_ you dedicated to?”

Louis shook his head but got into the car beside her. This was so weird. He felt so awkward. Not nervous, necessarily— not the good kind of nervous, at least. He just felt _weird_. Like he shouldn’t be here. Like there must have been some mistake.

“Where are we going?” Louis asked. Probably he should have asked that earlier. But Clare Uchima is that kind of person— she calls, you blindly follow.

She shrugged, “Shopping?”

He was going shopping with Clare Uchima? This was so weird. This was just _so weird._ Was she even interested in him— was that what was going on here? Girls don’t ask guys out very much. And when they do, they probably don’t typically ask them to come shopping.

They parked, and he followed Clare into the mall. He looked around him as they walked, like you might while wandering a foreign land. When he looked ahead again, Clare was walking into Zumiez. Louis stopped at the threshold, confused, and Clare turned around. “You shop here?” Louis asked.

Clare laughed. “Not once in my life. I’m here for a gift.” She paused. “For Bebe.”

“Oh,” Louis blinked.

“Is that weird?”

“Is…” Louis trailed off. “Um, no?”

“Wow, you sound sure of that,” Clare said with a laugh. “Whatever. Come on, I need your opinion.”

Louis followed behind her, making faces— disapproving or otherwise— as she held up various articles of clothing.

“So, you and Harry Styles have been hanging out a lot,” Clare said. Louis went stiff, and furrowed his brow.

“How do you know that?”

“He and I are close! We have a lot in common.” She smirked at him. He frowned.

He didn’t want to think about Harry right now. He didn’t want Clare to be buying a gift for Bebe. He didn’t know what he wanted. For this to be a date? For Clare not to have called him at all? To go back in time and prevent himself from ever suggesting The Plan in the first place?

Clare got Bebe a flannel, and they walked out.

“You should come over,” Clare said, smiling at him.

“What?”

“Come on, Louis. You’re cool. I’d like to hang out, if you would.”

“Sure,” Louis nodded. Clare drove them to her place, and let them in through the garage.

“You hungry?” she asked.

Louis felt this nervous energy coursing through him. He had to _do_ something, right? Maybe that’s what was up here. Maybe she was waiting on him.

How did Danny Zuko do these things? Clare turned around in the kitchen, expectantly. “Sure,” he said. She opened the fridge, digging around. She came out with a platter of little tea sandwiches. Was that just what rich people had in their fridges, regularly? She held them up for approval, and he nodded. They walked into her living room, falling onto her couch. She set the sandwiches down and turned to him, smiling. That seemed like a cue. So Louis leaned forward, finally, and kissed her.

Clare reeled back from him, her expression one of mild horror, and said, “Oh, no!”

Louis blanched, mortified at the severity of the rejection.

“Ah! Sorry! Oh, geez, I didn’t mean— like— ah— but, I’m, I’m gay, Louis.”

Louis stared at her, blankly, silently, utterly stunned. “You’re what?”

“I’m gay. I’m sorry. I thought you knew?”

Louis shook his head.

“I’m sorry, Louis—”

“Don’t apologize!” he put his hands up in protest. He stared at the floor as they sat in silence. Then, “I think… I am, too.”

“You are too what?”

“…gay.”

Clare pressed her lips together. “I… kind of figured.”

“You what?” he swiveled to her, eyes wide. “How do you mean you figured? I just tried to kiss you!”

“And you didn’t seem to thrilled about it.”

Louis put his face in his hands. “No. I wasn’t.” They were silent again, for a moment. “I… think… I like someone else,” he finally said.

Clare looked giddy when he glanced up at her. “Who?”

Louis hesitated a long moment. It wasn’t one of his usual dramatic pauses. It was a moment of indecision. And then, he decided.

“Harry.”

“Harry! That’s wonderful! You should tell him!”

Louis laughed brokenly. “As if,” he said, and he couldn’t even appreciate the unintentional _Clueless_ reference, so despondent did he feel. “He’s obviously straight. He’d never be interested in a million years. Besides, he’s off limits.”

“Off limits? What do you mean? Why?”

“Well, because Be—” suddenly Louis glanced at Clare, and her furrowed brow, and he cut himself off. He shrugged a shoulder. “I just meant he’s out of my league.”

“Don’t be silly!”

He couldn't believe he’d just come out to Clare Uchima. At the exact moment that he came out to himself. It was just too absurd, even for him.

He stared at her as she went on, rambling about how he was Absolutely Good Enough for Harry Styles. Here they were. Two gay people, sitting on a couch, casually discussing crushes after a failed heterosexual kiss.

“Wait,” he said. “So you’re gay.”

“As are you.”

“Yeah— I, yes— but…” he trailed off, and she followed his gaze to the Zumiez bag she’d left on her kitchen counter. He looked at her, and she blushed, avoiding his gaze.

“Oh,” he said, his eyebrows shooting up. He thought about the game— how Bebe didn’t want to go to the bathroom during halftime. He thought about the party— Clare and Bebe dancing close, Bebe paying Harry about as much romantic attention as she paid Louis himself. “Oh,” he said again.

“Hm,” Clare said.

“So should we… like… watch RuPaul?”

Clare cracked up. “Absolutely not,” she said. “But your head’s in the right place.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> every scene I write in this I'm like "this is the gayest thing I've ever written" and yet I somehow manage to keep making it gayer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: mention of fatphobia, d slur, t slur (or one of the t slurs; in context of discussing a film in which the word was period-typical)

Now that Bebe was aware of it, it was literally all she could think about. She’d heard of all-consuming crushes, but she’d thought they were just exaggerations. She was wrong. She woke up like: Clare. She went to sleep like: Clare. All through the day, everywhere she went, everything she did, her head was just: _Clare._

She had to talk to Louis. She had to tell him what was going on. That was Ok, right? It wasn’t like she was going to _do_ anything. Clare was straight. But she could tell him, right? Otherwise she’d have to keep up the plan, like nothing was different. Like she wasn’t losing her mind over a girl.

But it was like, how do you even bring something like that up? Could she just throw it out there, casually? Would he be mad? Would he be too stunned by the _girl_ part of her crush to even react to it being the girl _he_ liked? Would he start asking her questions she didn’t have answers for— like how long, or what was she, or was this the first time this had happened? She didn’t know. She felt like she didn’t know anything about herself. Like she was a total stranger in her own body.

Maddie Ernest was on stage, singing“Hopelessly Devoted To You.” Louis was sprawled across three theater seats, staring up at the ceiling, his eyes huge and blank like his body had left behind; his soul, or essence, or whatever, abducted by aliens.

Bebe tapped her finger on the seat in front of her, biting hard on her lower lip. She’d been friends with Louis so long, she couldn’t even remember the first time they met. (That super ridiculously sweet scene in _Stranger Things_ where Mike talks about meeting Will was total bullshit. When you’re friends with someone long enough, everything becomes such a blur, you can’t possibly pinpoint the moment they came into your life. It’s just like they were always there.) He was there for everything, and what he wasn’t there for, she told him about— the time she peed her overalls in first grade. When her mom was drunk and told her she was fat. That time a boy in seventh grade English called her a dyke (man, she hated when bullies ended up right.)

This should be easy. Guy friends had crushes on the same girl all the time, and they got through it. And it wasn’t like Louis was a homophobe. The boy wore makeup as often as she did— on stage, that is, but still. All the out kids at their school were in the drama department, and he’d never been anything but nice to them (well, except when they, along with everyone else in the department, fell victim to one of his and Bebe’s pranks. But that wasn’t homophobia, that was genius and comedy.)

Still, they’d been sitting here ten minutes, and she’d been trying to talk that whole time, and they’d be called back on stage soon, and she wasn’t _saying it_.

“Bebe,” Louis said. He’d closed his eyes.

“Yeah?” she felt sick. Like, _really_ sick. Like the first time she’d ever had a solo, and the understudy had smirked at her, as she went green in the face, sure she was going to get her moment.

“I’ve… I’m… you remember _M. Butterfly_?”

“What?” Bebe laughed, thrown by this random reference.

“Wow. I don’t— I can’t even—” Louis sighed loudly, clearly frustrated, and sat up. “Bebe,” he said again, firmly, looking her in the eye.

“Yes.”

He looked away, toward the stage. “You know how James Dean and Marlon Brando were actually lovers?”

“And had a threesome with Eartha Kitt, yes, I know, you never let me forget—”

“I’m gay.”

Bebe’s jaw dropped. Like, comically— it _dropped_.

All in a rush, he went on, “And I kind of probably really like Harry, but that doesn’t even matter, because he’s obviously straight, so don’t even worry about it, it’s not important at all, and you don’t have to feel bad, I would never begrudge you your happiness, so you can—”

“ _You’re_ gay?”

Louis looked at her. Swallowed. Nodded.

“ _I’m_ gay.”

Now Louis gaped. Like, the two of them were literally cartoon characters, it was pretty ridiculous. He sputtered, after a moment, “I mean, I kind of thought, but I wasn’t sure, and just because _she_ — doesn’t mean _you—_ I thought it was just wishful thinking—”

“Wait— you knew?” Bebe reeled. “You— who’s _she_? What?”

“Nothing!” Louis held his hands up as if in surrender. Bebe opened her mouth to protest, but Louis jumped up. “I should get back up there!” and he literally ran away.

So as fucking weird and crazy as _that_ was, it meant being into Clare was no longer marked through with a big red X in the friendship rule book.

What did it matter though, right? Even if Bebe was _allowed_ to like Clare, that didn’t make Clare any less straight.

Bebe had _thought_ she’d had crushes before. Like on Harry. She would get nervous, tongue-tied, when he’d talk to her. She’d imagine him smiling at her, showing up at her door to take her out. She’d reenact scenes from _She’s All That_ or _Pretty in Pink_ with she and him as the central characters. It’d never been everything she’d heard about crushes, but it seemed legit.

 _Now_ she knew what the hell Ed Sheeran wouldn’t shut up about. She’d barely eaten anything since she realized she liked Clare. She felt sick, like, constantly. This underlying, always-present nausea like she was on a boat, or traveling abroad, having caught a stomach bug or something. Part of her was like, isn't this supposed to be, like, pleasant? But it was also kind of the most alive she’d felt— maybe ever. Like there was this whole part of herself, and of life, that had been dormant— and it was erupting, now, this constant stream of lava, so she was burning and moving and full of this _force_. _Clare_. She would picture Clare’s mouth, and it was like she was a superhero. She could stop the world ending, just by imagining what it would be like to kiss that girl.

She tried to do her homework that night, and, legitimately, she was _baffled_ at how humanity had survived this long. Like, the majority of the population wasn’t aro-ace, right? And if this was how difficult it was to do a _worksheet_ when you had a crush— seriously, how had they not gone extinct yet?

Her phone buzzed with a text. She picked it up and held it over herself.

 _I always thought Rizzo was kind of gay_ , from Louis.

_RIZZO? how about DANNY_

_ok, its not a competition. but if it was, thank u, u are correct, i would be winning_

_we’re handling this well don't u think?_

_i feel like my insides have been scooped out with an ice cream spoon. i am flat stanley_

_ill take pics of u next to monuments_

_obviously_

Bebe grinned and dropped her phone down on her chest. Then she picked it back up again.

_do i dress gay_

Louis’s response was scary fast.

_bitch, u make ellen degeneres look like marilyn monroe_

_wasn't marilyn monroe kind of queer??_

_sounds like wishful headcanoning to me_

_so like u and cary grant?_

_first of all. he was gay. second of all. wow. i talked about that a lot huh_

_u did_

_we’re dense?_

_a little_

Bebe walked to the kitchen and made hot chocolate.

_also, u don't get to call me bitch just bc you're gay now_

_bitch I've been gay the whole time. ok sorry I'm stopping. but how else will i show my gayness through my vocabulary???_

_trust me, you're good on that front_

_bitch_

Bebe laughed.

“Something funny?” her mom asked, turning her head from the TV.

“Just Louis,” she said.

Her mom sighed. “I wish you two would figure out your shit and just get together already.”

She patted her mom’s shoulder on her way back to her room. “Keep the dream alive, mom.”

 

*

 

Niall Horan was snapping him pictures of Harry. He’d forgotten that he and Niall were even friends on Snapchat. It must have been one of those, oh, sure, I know who that is, why not, adds. But he was regretting it now. The first photo was Harry’s bare back, his head looking down, sweat dripping down his spine. It was on the infinite time setting, so Louis could just sit there staring at it— and oh, did he. Niall hadn’t even put a caption, or a filter, or anything. Just Harry’s bare, sweaty back. He had to know how Louis felt. Part of Louis was in complete panic mode over that, trying to backtrack through the few recent interactions he’d had with Niall, to pinpoint where he’d outed himself. But most of him was just staring at that photo, feeling his heart rate rise and his throat close up. He swallowed and tapped the photo so it would go away. But there was already another one. Only this one was a video. He turned the sound on on his phone and tapped the purple box. There was Harry, with mouse ears, nose, and glasses, singing a song Louis didn’t recognize in a truly cringe-inducing mouse voice. Even with the dumb voice alteration and ridiculous filter, the moment felt intimate, maybe too intimate for him to be seeing— presumably without Harry’s knowledge. Still, it took everything in him not to hold down on the screen and make that video replay.

He put his phone down and stared out his window. It wasn’t raining, but it had been, and every once in a while, fat drops of gathered runoff would fall from the tree outside his window, splashing down onto the fire escape like a clap. Louis and Bebe had sat out on that fire escape on countless summer nights, or even on school nights, when their moms were feeling lenient. They’d rest their chins on the railing and talk about the future— who they’d be, where they’d go, what they’d be doing. Sometimes they talked about who they’d be with— who they imagined for themselves. Louis felt like he had to correct those memories, or the fantasies in them. He’d never be half of a Brad and Angelina. He’d never date a girl named Lucy just so he could say, “Lucy, I’m home!” He wouldn’t have a wife, a girl he could surprise at work with flowers, or who would wake him up to breakfast in bed.

He imagined giving flowers to Harry, and buried his face in his hands.

He’d thought the crush he’d had on Clare was useless, but _this—_ that Harry would ever be interested in him was so far from the realm of possibility, it wasn’t even worth thinking about. And yet.

His phone buzzed. He looked at it hesitantly, worried it would be another snap from Niall, sent just to torture him. Instead, it was a text from Harry.

_who do u think monica was?_

_monica? like from friends_

_no. like the saint_

_??_

_as in santa monica_

Louis laughed, pulling his legs up under him and sliding downagainst the headboard of his bed.

_the patron saint of palm trees?_

_palm trees aren't even native to CA_

_well, probably neither is saint monica_

_touche_

Louis just stared at his phone, waiting, hoping Harry would say something else. Like, maybe, _hey, Louis, I know I’m the most popular guy at our school and literally the patron saint of heterosexuality and will probably marry an actual supermodel, but I can't stop thinking about you, want to go all_ The Notebook _at the beach and then make out for five hours?_

Louis’s bedroom door was abruptly flung open, and Lottie walked in and collapsed on his bed.

“Excellent job knocking there, Lots.”

“Don’t _call_ me that.”

“Sorry. It’s the Sodom implications, right? You’re absolutely right. Too close to home.”

“Sometimes it’s like you’re literally speaking a foreign language.”

“Foreign languages aren’t foreign to the people who speak them.”

“Can you shut up? I’m clearly in a crisis, here.”

Louis straightened up. “Sorry. What’s your crisis?”

Lottie sighed dramatically and turned her head toward him. “Now, I would like to start by saying I’m still a feminist, and we should talk about, like, what Malala’s up to, or something, after this.”

Louis nodded sagely. “Sure.”

“It’s about a boy.”

Louis crossed his arms over his chest. Again, too close to home. “Good film,” he said, belatedly.

“Mediocre,” she disagreed, closing her eyes. “I hate this. Like, this is literally so stupid. I don't want to give a crap what a boy thinks about me! I’m a goddess! Boys don’t matter!” She turned her head toward Louis again, her eyes opening wide. “But I _do_ care, Louis. I care so much.” She draped her arm over her face. Sometimes the sibling resemblance was uncanny. “Being straight is the worst.”

Louis choked on his own saliva, and Lottie sat up, smacking his back brutally, helping in absolutely no way at all.

“Saved your life,” she said, when he could finally breathe again.

“Ls!” Jay shouted from down the hall. “Dinner!”

“I can’t possibly eat!” Lottie said. “Love kills the appetite!” But she left Louis’s room and walked toward the kitchen. Louis leaned his head back against his wall, closing his eyes. He looked down at his phone as he stood up.

_gemmas screening is on friday if u want to come?_

_i want to come!_

Louis stared at his own text, already sent, and shouted, “I need to have my tongue cut out!”

Fizzy stuck her head into his door. “How come?”

“I just sent the most humiliating text in the history of mankind.”

“Shouldn’t we cut off your hands, then?”

Louis glared at her, hard. She walked ahead of him, and he looked down at his phone, where Harry, unfazed, was texting him the details about the screening. Bless that freakishly pure boy. His head was so far out of the gutter he made Louis look like Pennywise himself.

Louis used to wish, sometimes, that his dad was around to talk about girls with. In hindsight, part of what he wanted to ask, his dad wouldn’t have answers for. For example— were butterflies just a girl thing? Or made up all together? Or, why did all the porn he’d seen do exactly nothing for him? Why were the people in his wet dreams less _people_ and more _gender-ambiguous shadow figures?_

He wondered how his dad would have responded to finding out Louis was gay. Not well, obviously. But _how_ not well? What _kind_ of not well?

It was pointless wondering.

“Louis,” Jay said, handing him a glass of iced tea.

“Thanks, mom.” She smiled at him, that warm, loving smile. The real question, the one that actually mattered, was how _she_ would respond. Well, he thought. But what kind of well? And _how_ well?

He sat down across from Lottie.

“Louis’s just sent an embarrassing text,” Fizzy said.

“Fizzy!”

“Ooh, who to?” Jay grinned mischievously.

“No one,” Louis said, and shoveled food into his mouth.

 

*

 

This was a real, proper sleepover. Like, a slumber party— like a teen movie from the early 2000s. Bebe half-expected that someone would suggest a pillow fight at any moment.

Rehearsals of the “I’m Sandra Dee” scene had not prepared her for this.

Clare had told Bebe she didn’t really hang out with the cheer squad outside of school, but, evidently, that was a rule with exceptions. Sarah, Clare’s second in command, had cleared out her massive living room floor, and shoved her couches together in the middle, so they made a kind of nest, or, like, a very cushion-y, giant, bowl. There were already crumbs everywhere from several bags of Doritos and Ruffles, and at least six packs of Oreos. _13 Going on 30_ was playing on Sarah’s giant flatscreen, but it was totally impossible to hear any of the dialogue, because a mix that seemed to be composed entirely of Gwen Stefani, J-Lo, and Britney Spears, was blasting out of her surround-sound speakers. Nails were being painted and hair was being braided. Bebe literally felt like a one-man alien invasion.

Most of the girls were wearing animal onesies or long sleeve, long pants PJ sets, but a few were wearing lacy negligees or oversized tees with no bottoms. And all Bebe kept thinking was: _I am gay._

Clare was wearing an actual silk robe over her

tiny black negligee. Like, even if Bebe _hadn’t_ been there, this would have been a homoerotic scene all on its own.

This girl Angie that Bebe knew from English was lying on her back, her legs up on the cushion Bebe was leaning against. She glanced over just as Angie’s pant leg slid down a bit, revealing her ankle. Bebe felt like a Regency-era pervert, and looked quickly away.

“If U Seek Amy” was playing now. Like, this was too much.

”Let’s play truth or dare,” Sarah said.

A few of the girls groaned, but truth or dare won out, as it tends to. “You first, Sarah.”

“Dare. But let’s keep it sanitary and safe. We don’t need another _Bling Ring_ incident.” She and several of the other girls glared at Angie.

“Say what you want!” Angie said. “You’ll cherish that memory ’til the day you die.”

“I was shocked that memory didn’t _become_ the day I died,” Clare said, and the girls cracked up. Angie just smirked. Bebe crossed her arms over her chest. She couldn’t feel if she felt left out, or just kind of terrified. Those sorority slasher movies were just male violence fantasies, right? And now she was thinking about the lesbian porn she’d watched the night before. Also male violence fantasies, to be honest. But she wouldn’t lie and say it didn’t work for her nonetheless. Wow, she needed to redirect her train of thought.

Sarah’s dare involved nasty food combination consumption. The next girl admitted she’d had a sex dream about her stats teacher. Another girl admitted _she’d_ had a sex dream about Jade Catellano’s dad. Jade Catellano announced that she was quitting the squad. Then Angie was dared to jump in the pool. Bebe was apparently more naive on sleepovers than she realized, because she didn’t realize, until the moment she was pushed in, that when one girl goes in the pool, _every_ girl goes in the pool.

Clare laughed hysterically as Bebe gasped for breath, gripping the side of the pool.

“You’re adorable,” she said, and Bebe was relieved for the dark and for the cold water, preventing her blush.

“Her _Clare,_ ” Sarah swam over, grinning. “ _Truth_ — who do you like?”

“Are we in seventh grade?” Clare said. “And you don’t get to choose truth for me. I choose dare.”

“Ok,” Sarah said. “I dare you to kiss—” Clare ducked Sarah under the water. When she came back up, coughing and opening her mouth to protest, Clare pulled herself out of the pool, and standing there, her negligee clinging to her skin so Bebe felt like she could drown with her head above water, she said, “Ok. If we’re gonna night swim, shouldn’t we night swim _properly_?”

“Beach night!” several girls screamed, and they vaulted out of the pool like someone had shouted _fire_.

Clare took Bebe’s hand to pull her out. Bebe almost knocked her over, trying to get her footing. Clare put her hand on her waist and grinned at her.

Sarah brought a whole watermelon to the beach. She cracked it open on a rock, and then Bebe was literally watching a bunch of cheerleaders in soaked-through pajamas ripping chunks out of a watermelon with their bare hands. If it wasn’t dark, she’d be able to see the juice dripping down their chins as they ate like they were feral children. She couldn’t decide whether this whole thing was more _Lord of the Flies_ or _Girls Gone Wild._

Several girls stripped down to their underwear and ran, screaming, into the water. A few girls weren’t wearing bras, and just ran topless into the waves. Bebe stared out over the dark water. She felt like the cheerleaders were mermaids, or sirens, or selkies. Some sort of mythical creature, returning now to their nocturnal, true home. Like she was the only human among them— she blended in, but in the moment of truth, she wasn’t what they were. And she couldn’t go with them. She wondered whether they’d hate her if they knew the truth. Whether they’d resent her for pretending she was one of them; for invading their sacred space.

She felt a hand on her arm, and she turned. Clare was in a lacey bralette and string bikini-panties. Bebe just stared at her, transfixed, this sharp tug in her gut a tightening sensation below, like she was trying to keep something from falling out.

“You want to swim?”

For a moment Bebe couldn’t believe Clare couldn’t see it on her. She felt like she’d rolled in rainbow paint, or had GAY tattooed on her forehead. She wondered why Clare had invited her here, why Clare hung out with her at all. Clare was this Cleopatra, this Audrey Hepburn, this Aphrodite. She was a miracle, she made the tides turn, the waves crash, the moon shine. If she weren’t here, this whole beach would be a desolate spread of sand. The whole world would be sand— the seas would dry and the trees would wither like cut flowers. What was Bebe doing here? She pulled her shirt off and kicked off her shorts. She nodded at Clare, who smiled at her, her teeth glowing in the moonlight. She wanted to say, you’re magic. She wanted to say, when you’re around me, I feel my body, and my soul— I _feel_ them, as I _never_ did before you. She wanted to reach out— to touch her.

Clare took her hand and pulled her into the sea.

Laughing and shivering, Bebe ducked under the water over and over. It wasn’t as painfully cold when she was submerged as it was standing. Clare was pushing her hair back over her head, breathing in gasps, when Bebe came up for air. Several girls were singing “Part of Your World.” Clare looked at Bebe, water dripping down her face, as seaweed weaved around their feet. They swayed with the waves, and Clare opened her mouth. She closed it again, and reached out. Bebe’s eyes went wide, and Clare pulled a single string of sea grass out of her hair.

“Getting cold?” she asked in a whisper. Bebe shook her head.

When they got back to Sarah’s, they dumped all their wet pajamas into her dryer and put on oversized tee shirts she stole from her brother’s room. Back in their couch cave, they turned out the lights and turned off the TV, whispering in the dark, gossip mixing in with confessions and existential wonder. Bebe focused on her breathing, hyper-aware of Clare beside her, the feeling of her bare leg pressed against her own. Clare tugged her own shirt up to scratch her hip, and even in the dark, Bebe’s gaze was fixed on that spot, that patch of bare skin just over her panty line. She wanted to touch her so badly she felt like she might spontaneously combust— a bright flash of light in the oppressive darkness of the room. Her tongue felt huge in her mouth, because she’d never thought, before just then, what she could do with it. She would lick Clare’s skin, that revealed patch, if she could. Licking had never before seemed like an action that could be reverent. But given the chance, Bebe would lick Clare to her core, like trying to reach the center of a lollipop— and when she was done, when her tongue had reached bone, she would sit up, and Clare would know that she was worshipped.

“Bebe,” Clare whispered, but, abruptly terrified that she’d be found out, that her voice would crack or her leg would shake, that she would somehow give herself away, Bebe screwed her eyes shut and lay, silent. “Good night,” Clare whispered, and brushed Bebe’s cheek with the back of her hand. Bebe’s heart beat hard. Maybe it was only minutes, but it felt like she didn’t fall asleep for hours.

 

*

 

Louis crossed and uncrossed his arms over and over, until he actually got a few judgmental looks from people around him.

 _im here_ , he’d texted Harry twenty minutes before. Harry had yet to respond. Louis should just jump in, find a seat somewhere in the grass and start chatting to strangers. He was good at that; mingling came as natural to him as breathing. Normally, that’s exactly what he’d be doing in a situation like this. Making himself comfortable and charming the pants off strangers, then turning when his friends arrived and called out to him, smiling at them in acknowledgment, maybe waving them over, but not even making a move to go to them. He was cool, casual, at ease. Usually.

Right then, he felt like Molly fucking Ringwald. Completely out of place; a paper plate in a china set. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. He couldn’t even make eye contact with anyone without feeling an intense need to spin around and sprint about a hundred miles in the opposite direction.

Why hadn’t Harry responded?

“Louis,” he heard, and he turned. There was Harry, but had Louis been less familiar (read: obsessed) with the quarterback’s face, he wouldn’t have recognized him. Harry wasn’t wearing a jersey, or a sweatshirt, or even a worn Rolling Stones shirt. He wasn’t wearing scuffed Adidas sneakers or sagging pants. Instead, he wore skin-tight jeans, torn at the knees, and gold Chelsea boots, barely muted by the dim evening light. He wore a loose-fitting pink button-down, silk or satin, with careful floral stitching along the hem— mostly unbuttoned, so a large portion of his chest was bare. His hair was down, clearly conditioned and brushed— shiny ringlets like he’d stepped out of a L’Oréal commercial.

“Harry,” Louis said, when the boy had stopped in front of him. “You… look…”

Harry bit his lower lip, fidgeting nervously, his eyebrows drawn together.

“Um. You look great,” Louis said.

Harry let out a visible sigh of relief. “Thanks,” he said, giving Louis this soft smile that made his insides curdle like expired milk. “We’re just over here,” Harry said, and Louis followed him, assuming he’d see Gemma. Instead, sprawled on towels in the grass, blowing bubbles above themselves, were Niall and Liam. Liam shot up, greeting Louis hurriedly. Niall just turned his head and smirked.

“I didn’t know you guys would be here,” Louis said.

“Aw, sorry,” Niall said. “We can sit somewhere else if you two want privacy.”

“ _Niall,_ ” Harry said through gritted teeth. Louis looked between them. Niall laughed and blew more bubbles. Liam reached out to pop them.

“The film’ll start soon,” Harry said, turning to Louis, that soft smile on display again. “I’m gonna get snacks. You want anything?”

“Whoppers,” Niall said.

“Did I ask you?”

“Whoppers!” Niall said louder.

“Fine. Louis?”

“Um, popcorn if they have it?”

“‘Course,” and Harry turned and walked away. Louis looked down at the other two football players before hesitantly sitting beside them.

“Oh, here!” Liam reached into a bag and pulled out another towel, which he spread out beside him. “Harry was gonna sit here, but you guys can share.”

“Sure,” Louis said, sitting down.

“Sharing is caring,” Niall said, that seemingly ever-present smirk fish-hooking his mouth.

Liam rolled his eyes and turned to Louis. “Ignore him. He’s a pest. We only keep him around because no one else will take him.”

“Very charitable of you,” Louis said. Niall chortled like an old man, and blew more bubbles.

“All right, Lawrence Welk, enough,” Harry said, dropping the snacks and grabbing Niall’s bubble wand. “You’re gonna get the towels all soapy.” Niall grumbled as Harry sat down beside Louis, handing him a small popcorn.

“Thanks,” Louis said, trying to control his pulse. Harry’s leg brushed against his as he got situated on the towel they were sharing, and Louis felt like he might involuntarily jump him or else throw up. He crumpled the popcorn bag in his hand. “So, what are we watching tonight?”

“ _Bara no sôretsu_ ,” Harry said. Louis quirked a brow at him, and Harry’s cheeks heated. “Aka _Funeral Parade of Roses_. It’s a Japanese film. It’s kind of hard to explain. Kind of a proto-trans, multi-genre, black and white film.”

“It’s trippy as hell,” Niall offered.

“Do you need trigger warnings? Sorry, I should’ve said ahead of time, I thought you’d seen the flier—”

“Nah, I’m good. Thank you, though,” Louis smiled at Harry, and Harry smiled back, and Louis thought of that scene, in _Romeo + Juliet,_ when Leo and Claire Danes look at each other through the fish tank. His throat felt dry, his lips felt dry, too, and he darted his tongue out to wet them. Harry looked at his mouth. He was almost positive Harry looked at his mouth. But it was over so soon, he couldn’t be sure. He looked away, at the giant blow-up screen where the film would be projected. “Thanks for inviting me,” he said.

“Thanks for coming,” Harry said.

Louis glanced over at Harry, who was looking at his feet. Then he looked past him, at Niall, who was looking at the two of them. His smirk was gone, this small smile in its place, his eyes soft. He met Louis’s gaze and his smile widened. He shook his head and looked away.

Partway through the film— which, frankly, was as trippy as Niall had promised— the four of them sprawled out on their stomachs. Niall kicked his legs around like a teenage girl in a Sofia Coppola film, making the others laugh. A woman to their left shushed them, which just made them laugh more.

Harry’s leg was pressed against Louis’s. The movie was incredible, but Louis kind of couldn’t focus on it. All of his attention was fixed on that point of contact. He kept thinking that maybe it wasn’t really that common for straight guys to invite their guy friends to outdoor screenings of queer films, and to where pink silk and gold boots, and to press their legs up against the legs of other guys. But this was his sister’s screening. And he’d invited Niall and Liam, too— Niall had already seen this, which seemed to indicate that they frequented these things. There was still the pink silk, but the last thing he wanted to do was assume someone’s sexuality based off of how they dressed. Sure, he didn’t dress like that at school, but maybe he just didn’t feel comfortable there.

His leg was still there, unmoving. But they were sharing a towel. It was just incidental.

Louis lifted his chin slightly, glancing at Harry in his periphery. His eyes were fixed on the screen. Louis chanced a look at his mouth. His pink lips were parted slightly. Louis imagined sliding his tongue in between them. When he looked up at Harry’s eyes again, Harry was looking back.

After, they offered Gemma help in cleaning up. She waved them off, sending Harry a grin that Louis couldn’t read. The four of them piled into Harry’s car, Louis’s bike in the trunk.

“I could see that movie a hundred times and the eye thing would still freak me out,” Niall said.

“Report back on that once you’ve seen it a hundred times,” Harry said.

“Will do.”

“What’d you think, Lou?”

Louis pushed past the ridiculous internal screaming over the nickname to reply. “It was stunning— visually, especially. I liked what you said about it being a proto-trans film, Harry. Kind of capturing some aspects of the trans experience in a society and a time where there wasn’t the vocabulary or understanding of trans people that there is now. Almost reminiscent of some elements of _Paris is Burning_.”

“I completely agree!” Harry said, beaming. “It’s like, there’s this book _The Well of Loneliness_ from the 1920s,” he started, but Niall cut in.

“ _Here we go_ ,” he said. Harry continued, undeterred.

“Everyone thinks of it as this iconic lesbian novel, but if you actually read it, it seems pretty apparent that the main character is actually probably a trans man.”

Louis nodded. “Right, like the people in the film were treated as gay men, or ‘transvestites,’ as they said, when today they would probably be recognized as trans women.”

“ _Exactly._ ”

“Even today a lot of people want to ignore everything but the L and G in LGBTQIA,” Liam piped up from the back scene. Louis’s brows shot up.

Niall clapped a hand on Liam’s back. “Not in this car they don’t, Lima bean.” Liam smiled at him. Louis stared at them in the rearview mirror. Then he turned to look at Harry. Harry glanced at him. “Um,” he said.

“Oh, Liam’s bi, Louis,” Niall said.

“Niall! You can’t just out people without their permission!”

Niall put his hands up in mock surrender as they pulled into Harry’s driveway. “Sorry, dude!” He turned to Liam. “I thought you didn’t mind, though, right? You said?”

“I don’t mind,” Liam shrugged. “Louis’s cool, right, Harry?”

Harry got out of the car without saying anything. Louis, frozen in place for this whole conversation, finally moved, turning to face Liam. He nodded. “I’m cool.”

Niall laughed. “And humble, as well!”

They got out of the car, following Harry into the house.

“Dorito casserole, anyone?” Harry called over his shoulder as he headed toward the kitchen. Liam and Niall hooted in approval. Evidently the car conversation was over. Louis felt shaky all over, like he’d been dancing for hours and forgotten to eat.

They piled onto Harry’s couches as they ate. Niall put his hand on his chest and let out a monstrous burp. Liam pushed him hard, and Niall fell over on his side, laughing. “Straight men,” Liam said, sighing and rolling his eyes.

“Aw, Li. I know. You wish I was on the menu. I get it. Who wouldn’t?”

“Whatever you are, Niall, I’m allergic to it.”

Niall and Liam headed out shortly after. Louis motioned towards the front door. “Should I…?”

“If you want,” Harry said. He was looking at him in this way that made Louis feel like he weighed a thousand pounds. As if, at any moment, he might break through the floor, and sink to the Earth’s core.

Louis nodded shortly. “I’ll stay.”

Harry nodded. “Should we go to my room?”

Louis followed him up the stairs, feeling like he was on the brink of something. Maybe a full breakdown.

Harry hesitated before his door. He looked back at Louis, who tilted his head in question. Then Harry opened the door, and walked in. Louis followed him, and saw it immediately. Where that patch of un-sun-bleached wall had been the first time he’d come here. A rainbow flag. A pride flag.

Harry rubbed his hand on the back of his neck. He stared at his feet.

“You’re gay,” Louis said. Harry nodded. Louis wanted to kiss him. Could he kiss him? No. Right? Just because Harry was gay didn’t mean he was interested in Louis, right? He wasn’t coming onto him by telling him this. Just trusting him.

“You’re… the quarterback,” Louis heard himself say. Harry laughed.

“Honestly, Liam and I tried out in the first place as a joke. Like, queers taking over, toppling the heteronormative patriarchal rituals of high school from the inside, or whatever.” He shrugged. “But we kind of just… enjoy the game. Or I do, at least. Liam mostly likes spending time with Niall and I, I think. And spending a bunch of time with hot guys and cheerleaders probably doesn’t hurt, either.” He grinned.

Louis stood still. “I kind of… feel like… I’m in _The Twilight Zone_ right now.”

Harry laughed. “I know, right? They gay quarterback comes out to his straight drama geek friend.”

“Excuse me. That’s _thespian_ , to you.”

Harry laughed, “Of course.”

But Louis wasn’t straight. Harry thought he was straight. Was he not interested in him because he thought he was straight? Would he be interested in him if he knew he was gay? He looked at Harry. Harry looked back.

Was he interested in him _despite_ thinking he was straight?

He took a step forward. “You agreed pretty readily, you know. When I asked you to teach me football.”

Harry swallowed. Louis watched it happen. “I’m… charitable.”

“Right.” Louis stepped forward again. Harry’s eyes were steadily widening. “Thank you for coming out to me, Harry. I’m glad you trust me with that.” Harry nodded. Louis took another step forward. What was he _doing_?

“Harry.”

“Yeah?”

“Guess what?”

“What?”

“I’m gay too.”

“Harry!” Gemma’s voice rang out through the house, as the front door slammed closed behind her. “Come help me put this shit away! Hurry up, this weighs like a million pounds!”

Louis stepped back. Harry was gaping at him.

“I should go,” Louis said.

“But— you— I—-”

“Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow,” Louis said.

Harry closed his mouth and nodded. Louis grinned at him and hurried down the stairs.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> short chapter but I don't think you'll mind...

Saturday rehearsal ran longer than originally planned, and Louis looked like he was losing his mind.

“You waiting to poop at home, or what?” Bebe asked, sidling up beside him in the wings.

“What?” Louis shot her a confused glance, not even laughing. Clearly he was in a mood.

“Where are you, dude? You got a hot date waiting for you or something?”

Louis blushed, and Bebe raised a brow. He shook his head. “I’d just like to be _not at school_ on a Saturday night. Wouldn’t you?”

Bebe glanced at her phone, where Clare had asked if she was free tonight. According to her, the cheer squad had liked her, and asked if she wanted to join them tonight. Clare hadn’t clarified _what_ she would be joining them for, but it’s not like Bebe cared. Anywhere where Clare was gonna be was a place she’d like to go.

Bebe hip-checked Louis. “You’re hanging with Harry, aren’t ya?”

Louis crossed his arms over his chest. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. I’m a closed book.”

“Sure you are.”

Bebe hung back as Louis went out on the stage. Sometimes she felt like that was where she belonged. Just off stage, just out of sight. Sometimes she thought she wasn’t really an actress— just a fraud.

She wanted to go with Clare tonight. But something was tugging in her, weighing her down. A voice told her that the risk of getting closer to Clare wasn’t just that she might realize how Bebe felt about her— but that she might _tell_. If Clare knew how Bebe felt, she might react any number of ways— with anger, disgust, pity, apathy. But whatever her reaction, the danger that she might _tell…_

Coming out to Louis had gone smoother than she ever would have expected— for obvious reasons. But Bebe had only just come out to _herself_. She was so far from ready to be out. The thought alone— imagining people in school looking at her, _knowing._ If she got bullied for it, it wouldn’t be the first time. But it would be the first time it wasn’t unfounded, the first time she couldn’t deny it, or laugh it off, because people suck, but obviously it’s not _true_. It was true. It was all true. And she wasn’t ready for anyone to know that. This was _her_ truth, that had taken her so long to understand. She didn’t want it turned against her. Not yet. She wasn’t ready.

She didn’t really think Clare was the outing type. She clearly had queer friends, if Yasmin’s make out session at the party was anything to go by (although, of course, they could’ve just been drunk straight girls. But something told her they weren’t.) But what if she mentioned it offhand, unthinking? Or even if she didn’t tell anyone— if Clare realized, so could anyone. What if she went out with the cheer squad tonight, and by the time she left, they _all_ knew?

Louis tilted his head at her when he came backstage. “You all right?” he asked.

“Fine,” Bebe said.

When rehearsal ended, Bebe stared at her phone for a long moment before texting Clare.

_you guys still hanging out?_

_yea!! it’s just sarah astrid sasha and i getting coffee. u want to join?_

Ok. Coffee. That was fine. And it was just a few of them— Sasha didn’t even go to their school. It was fine. It was going to be fine.

_yea, where?_

Bebe found and entered the hole-in-the-wall coffee shop. It was busy, especially for a Saturday evening— she was surprised. She looked around for Clare or her friends, and as she surveyed the patrons, her eyebrows raised. At one table there was a girl, writing in a notebook, wearing a backwards snapback and a loose flannel. At another table, a girl in a sports bra had one leg up on her chair, her chin resting on her knee. She was holding the hand of another girl, wearing bright red lipstick and a 1950s hairdo.

Finally Bebe spotted Sasha, and walked towards the table. Clare, hair braided and dangly earrings swaying, turned to look over her shoulder as Bebe approached. She smiled and indicated the empty chair beside her. Bebe motioned towards the counter, and Clare nodded. When she’d gotten a drink, Bebe took a breath and walked back toward the table, sitting beside Clare, feeling a step beyond wearing her heart on her sleeve— translucent, like a deep sea creature.

She could barely listen to the conversation, much less participate. Looking at Clare was a full-body, all-encompassing activity. She felt like she was taking, and failing, the Turing test— like she wasn’t displaying real consciousness; wasn’t showing the full range of human emotions: just one. She was a bobblehead, her gaze fixed on a single spot even as she swayed.

Clare leaned toward her. “You know I actually hate coffee?” Bebe looked at her and then at her cup. Clare laughed. “I just come here for the community, you know? The atmosphere. Bars and clubs are cool, but it’s nice to have a place like this. Don’t you think?”

Bebe tried to make sense of what Clare was saying, but her brain had short-circuited as she stared at Clare’s lipstick stain on the rim of her cup. She couldn’t stop imagining stains from that same lipstick elsewhere.

The others had already been there a while by the time Bebe arrived, so the five of them headed out shortly. “Where are you guys heading?” Bebe asked, sticking her hands deep in her pockets, trying not to stare at Clare’s bare midriff.

“There’s a party tonight, we were gonna head to Sasha’s to pregame. You want to…?”

Bebe thought about the last party she’d gone to with Clare, how she’d looked, how they’d danced. She hadn’t known how she’d felt, then. And Louis had been there. This would be different. She didn’t feel ready for that.

“I think I’m gonna head home,” she said. “Long day,” she added, honestly.

“Yeah, fair enough.” The other girls had walked ahead of Clare to Sasha’s car.

“Hurry up, Hayley!” Sarah and Astrid called in unison.

“I’m coming, don’t get your panties in a wad!” Clare turned back to Bebe, rolling her eyes. “Sorry about them.”

“Why’d they call you Hayley?”

Clare rolled her eyes again. “After Hayley Kiyoko. You know, because I’m part Japanese and gay. It’s very creative.”

Bebe stared at her.

“I’ll see you later, Ok?” Clare touched her arm. Bebe stared at Clare’s hand on her arm. Then she stared at Clare’s face. Then Clare walked away, waving as she turned. Still Bebe stared after her, unmoving. Then she stepped forward. One moment— a split-second decision, like sky-diving or pulling a trigger.

“Clare.”

Clare turned, and, seeing Bebe’s expression, raised an eyebrow.

“Parties are lame,” she said, all in a rush. “You want to come over, instead?”

Clare’s constant-smirk dropped off, and she froze. She seemed to study Bebe’s face, searching for something, trying to make sure she understood what she meant.

“Yes,” she said.

 

*

 

“Hi,” Louis said, when Harry had opened the door.

“Gemma’s not home,” Harry said. Louis laughed. Harry’s face went splotchy red, a Pollock and a Michelangelo. “I just meant— because last time—”

“I know what you meant,” Louis said. “Let me in.” Harry moved to oblige the request, and Louis toed off his shoes before turning to face the quarterback. That it was still possible to identify the boy before him with such a title when Louis knew, now, how much more than that he really was, floored him a bit. For a long moment, he was silent— speechless.

“Do you want something to drink? Or eat?” Harry asked. Louis refrained from making a lewd joke about a few things he could think of that sounded delicious. Harry looked too nervous to handle such humor. He looked _so_ nervous— an Olympic diver on the board, staring down. A baby bird, its tiny wings fluttering as it perches on the edge of the nest. A boy about to kiss a boy.

“Not really,” Louis said. He glanced around, toward the back room, the doors they’d go through if they were going to practice football. An idea came to him, and he turned back to Harry. “Why don’t we swim?”

In his room, Harry retrieved swim trunks for Louis and handed them to him with his head down. “I’ll change in the bathroom and meet you down there,” he said, so fast it could have been a foreign language. Louis grinned and nodded, though he doubted Harry could see the gesture, his chin tucked into his chest as it was.

Harry was already in the water when Louis got down to the pool. He was faced away from Louis, standing in water up to his waist. Louis hesitated just a moment, then eased himself into the water behind Harry. He wound his arms around the taller boy and put his hand flat on his chest. He could feel Harry’s pulse beating heavy on his palm. He wanted to pull it out, hold it, feel it everywhere. Harry turned, looked down at him, and for a moment Louis’s resolve, his cool, his method acting— it all broke, fell away, and he was vulnerable as that falling baby bird. He stared back at Harry and opened his mouth, but it was Harry who spoke.

“Louis, I have to be honest with you.” Louis’s eyebrows raised at that, genuinely surprised.

“About what?”

“This isn’t— I’m not—”

Louis’s head ran through a thousand horrific scenarios. This whole thing had been a prank. Harry wasn't gay. He’d set Louis up. He was a fucking YouTuber, and this whole thing was being filmed for his eighty subscribers. Harry said, “This isn’t new for me.”

Now Louis was confused. “Um… you… mean you’re… experienced?”

“No, oh my—” Harry laughed, clearly flustered and embarrassed. “I’m not, no. That’s not what I meant.”

“So what did you—”

“I’ve liked you since freshman year.”

Louis’s eyes went wide. “You _what_?”

“I just thought maybe it was kind of dishonest to not tell you, because I don’t gather that you can say the same. I was— when we first met, when I first saw you, I thought you were gay. And I was, like, obsessed with you. But I realized I’d just assumed because you’re, like, in theater, and—” he blushed. “Just… you know. I stereotyped you. And then, apparently, you were straight. So I kind of gave up on you. But I also kind of didn’t… um… stop… feeling the way I did.”

Louis stared at him, speechless.

“So when you asked me to teach you sports,” Harry smiled now, and Louis put his face in his hands, groaning in embarrassment. “Yeah. So that’s why I was so… enthusiastic.”

“You’re right,” Louis said into his hands. “It’s not the same for me. I didn’t even know I was _gay_ until, like, two days ago.”

He peered at Harry to gauge his reaction to that. Harry nodded slowly. “Yeah… that… makes sense.”

They just kind of stood there, then, looking at each other and then at the water and then back at each other.

Finally, Louis sighed and gave Harry a side eye, grinning. “You really killed the moment, quarterback.”

Harry laughed, and Louis kissed him.

Their teeth knocked together, and they both laughed, and kind of stumbled, and fell into the water. They came back up, and went in too quick, and knocked foreheads. Laughing, they fell into each other, Harry wrapping his arms around Louis’s shoulders, Louis carding his fingers through Harry’s wet curls, their chests vibrating against each other with laughter. Then Louis tilted his head back, and Harry leaned forward, and they kissed.

Lips touched lips, and Louis felt his eyelids fluttering, his pulse along with them. Then Harry kind of sighed against him, and Louis’s lips parted in surprise, in gratification, and Harry moved into the space, like a book slotted onto a shelf. Harry’s hands were on Louis’s waist now, his thumbs moving under the water, pressing against Louis’s hips like he was forming him out of clay. Their mouths moved together with a familiarity foreign to Louis, who’d never kissed a boy before, never kissed Harry before. He wanted to stop so he could say thank you. But he didn’t think he could stop if he tried.

Even in the cold water, Louis was hot everywhere, his breathing becoming labored as the kiss went on. He’d always hated in movies or plays when first kisses led right to sex— he liked steady progressions, one and then another and then another. But he could understand it, now, as Harry ran a hand down his bare chest, as it skidded like a skipping stone, and stopped above the elastic of his shorts. They kissed, their tongues sometimes touching, sometimes licking. Harry sucked Louis’s lower lip into his mouth like he was sucking a honey stick. Louis could feel himself hardening in his shorts, and he struggled under the water to move away from Harry without moving away from Harry’s mouth. He pulled away, panting, his head still tilted back like he was in the Sistine Chapel. “Maybe… we… should… stop.”

Harry ducked under the water. When he came back up, he was still breathing heavily. His smile was wide and goofy and Louis was smiling back, and everything was alive and he was kind of exhausted. Harry lofted himself out of the pool and reached a hand down to take Louis’s. Their fingers slotted together and Louis was on top of the world. “Let’s go to the kitchen,” Harry said. “You can teach me how to make scones.”

 

*

 

She could overthink it, or she could act. And wasn’t that what Bebe wanted? To act?

Closing her apartment door behind them, she took Clare’s hand and pulled her toward her room. She closed that door behind them, too, and turned toward Clare, who was looking at her with her lips parted just slightly, her lids hooded, her chest rising and falling just a beat too fast. Bebe walked around her and sat down on the bed.

“Bebe—”

“Come here.” Clare’s eyes went wide, and she swallowed before stepping forward. Bebe didn’t hesitate. She acted. She put her hands on Clare’s waist— bare, as she was wearing a cropped lace shirt and a loose skirt. “Come _here_ ,” Bebe insisted, and Clare took in a breath that would have won her a spelling bee if it was a word— so many syllables, rattling out of her chest. She rested one knee aside Bebe, and then the other, on her opposite side. She was hovering above Bebe’s lap now, staring down at her, her chest heaving and her ragged breaths hitting Bebe’s face. Bebe was suddenly scared shitless. She didn’t really understand how this was happening. How she’d ended up here. What to do now.

But she acted— she surged up, a wave cresting, to stain her mouth with Clare’s lipstick.

Clare kissed her back, and suddenly Bebe knew what that really meant— to be kissed back. Clare pressed against her, leaned into her, let her legs fall so she was fully seated in Bebe’s lap as she threaded her fingers in Bebe’s hair, tugging slightly so Bebe gasped and leaned her head back. Clare grinned and dipped her tongue into Bebe’s mouth like an artist washes a paintbrush. The way they moved together, sitting still, gave Bebe an awareness of a moment: how much can happen as hardly anything does. Bebe released one hand from Clare’s waist to pull gently at her long hair, to brush her shoulder, to cup her face, to grip her neck.

Finally Clare pushed Bebe back, so she was lying flat. They just stared at each other for a moment, breathing. Bebe never would have imagined she could be so overwhelmingly aroused by something as every day as breathing. Then Clare leaned down, over her, so their breasts were pressed together, and Bebe made a somewhat feline noise, and Clare made a somewhat canine noise, and they were kissing again. Bebe flipped them, and pressed them together again, shuddering against Clare, hot everywhere, biting down on Clare’s lower lip hard. She moved to Clare’s neck as Clare scraped fingernails down her back, bare but for her sports bra. Bebe sucked on Clare’s skin with intent to bruise, and Clare’s back arched off the bed as she made little broken, ascending noises, her fingers now digging hard into Bebe’s hips. She let one finger fall beneath Bebe’s waistband, and Bebe shuddered hard. She moved to meet Clare’s gaze again, and Clare pulled her down, and they kissed until neither of them could breathe. Then Bebe collapsed on the bed beside Clare, and pulled her head to rest on her chest.

“All this time I thought I was Cay,” Clare said eventually, when their breathing had leveled out. “But I’m feeling an awful lot like Vivian right now.”

Bebe sighed. “I don’t understand that reference at all.”

“ _Desert Hearts_?”

Bebe shook her head.

“You’re a gay actress and you don’t know the lesbian classic _Desert Hearts_?”

“I don’t know anything about being gay. I’m a total novice.”

“Well. I wouldn’t say _that_.”

Bebe grinned, raising herself on an elbow. “Oh, wouldn’t you?” Clare pressed her lips together in a smile and shook her head. Bebe leaned down and opened that smile with her tongue. “I appreciate the feedback,” she whispered into Clare’s mouth.

“100% Fresh,” Clare whispered through a giggle.

“Are you Rotten Tomatoes-ing me?” Clare giggled more. Bebe grinned wide and leaned down, “I’ll show you fresh,” and Clare opened her mouth, gripping her own hand behind Bebe’s neck. She didn’t feel like an amateur with Clare. She didn’t feel like a fraud. This was real life. This was something true.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> nearing the end here... pls watch every movie mentioned in this fic... they're so good

Niall had a grin on his face like he’d just pulled an _Ocean’s 11-_ level prank off with resounding success. Louis approached him cautiously, as you might a wild animal. “Hi Niall,” he said. The boy was blocking his locker.

“Don’t worry,” Niall said, “Harry doesn’t kiss and tell. He’s just easier to read than _Fun with Dick and Jane_.”

Louis laughed and shook his head. “Can I get into my locker, please?”

“Listen,” Niall said, sliding to the side so Louis could access his locker. “I know I basically locked you guys in a supply closet overnight—” Louis shot him a confused look. “Like, I didn’t hide my enthusiasm for you two hooking up.”

“Oh,” Louis said. “No you did not.”

“Yeah. And I’m so happy for you guys. For Harry. But I don’t want you to think that just because I Emma Woodhoused you, I’m not gonna Amy Dunne you if you Marc Antony my boy.”

“That was… a lot of literary references.”

“You think football players can be gay but can’t read?”

Louis laughed. “I… admire your concern. But don’t worry. I only intend to… Mr. Darcy… _your boy_.”

“Fitzwilliam is a little pretentious for my tastes, but I can accept that.”

“Oh bananas,” Harry’s voice said, and Louis turned to face him, already feeling himself beaming, despite his best intentions to play it at least somewhat cool. “What’s Horan saying to you?” Harry shot Niall a look as Liam, standing beside him, laughed.

“He’s just doing the older-brother thing,” Louis said, as Harry met his gaze and beamed back at him.

“He hasn’t scared you off, has he?”

“Not I.”

Harry grinned. “You free after practice tonight?” Louis nodded. “I’ll see you, then,” Harry said, as the bell rang. Niall gave Louis’s back a good smack and started off aside Liam, who shot Louis a small grin. Harry just stared at Louis for a moment, sucking on his lower lip. Louis almost moved forward to kiss him. But he held up his hand in a wave, instead, and they parted ways.

At rehearsal, Louis was restless, nervous, happy. He’d barely seen Bebe all day, as she had to talk to a teacher about some makeup assignment or other during lunch, and he waited for a dull moment to talk to her. Finally, she stepped into the green room, and he stepped forward, his mouth already open to talk. Before he could, she said, “Louis!” and grabbed his arm, pulling him aside. “How soon is too soon to start calling someone your girlfriend?”

Louis’s jaw dropped. “You—”

“And Clare. Yeah. _Yeah_.”

“We have to stop doing this,” Louis said.

“Doing what?”

“Having synchronized Big Life Moments.”

Bebe’s eyes went huge. “You and Harry!”

“ _Shhh_ ,” Louis’s gaze darted around. Bebe leaned forward.

“Sorry, I’ll keep it down, but I think everyone in this room is gay or gay-adjacent anyway, Lou.”

“What the hell is gay-adjacent?”

“You know. Like supporters. Like Macklemore.”

“ _Allies_?”

“Yeah, I guess, but that word’s weird, right? Like, this isn’t World War II.”

Louis rolled his eyes so hard he gave himself a mild headache. “You’re an idiot. Now. You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.”

Harry was waiting by his Range Rover for Louis when rehearsal ended. The lot was all but empty now, so when Louis reached him, he went up on his tiptoes to give Harry’s mouth a single, short kiss. Harry looked dazed when he pulled away. “Did practice just get out?” Louis asked. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

“Just like half an hour. Forty-five minutes tops.”

“Harry!” Louis smacked his arm. “You should’ve gone home, I could’ve come to you.”

“I wanted to drive you,” Harry said. He opened his passenger door for Louis and grinned as Louis, pressing his lips together to conceal a smile, climbed in. “Makes me feel chivalrous,” Harry said.

“I think chivalry is reserved for heterosexual couples. From the 50s or earlier.” Louis realized he’d said ‘couples’ with reference to himself and Harry and felt his face heat up like a leaf under a nine-year-old’s magnifying glass. Harry didn’t say anything about it, though, as he climbed into the driver’s seat and buckled in.

“Maybe so. But doesn’t that make taking it for our own modern, homosexual purposes kind of a revolutionary act?”

“You’re the dorkiest revolutionary I ever saw.”

“Thank you.”

Harry turned to Louis as his front door swung shut behind them, poised to talk, but Louis was having none of it. He reached up with both arms and a sense of urgency, and pulled Harry down to him, catching his lower lip between both of his, smiling as Harry made a sound of surprise and shivered under— well, above— him.

Anne cleared her throat.

The two boys jumped away from each other like they’d stepped on a grenade. Louis stared hard at the floor, hot with embarrassment as Anne chuckled.

“Hi, boys,” she said. “Sorry to interrupt. I heard you come in and wanted to tell you, Harry, that your friends are out back.” Louis looked up at that, surprised, and glanced at Harry. Harry looked like his mom had just said “Scully! You’re not gonna believe this!”

Louis followed behind a dejected and visibly annoyed Harry to the backyard, where Liam and Niall were passing Harry’s football.

“Niall,” Harry said.

“Hey, guys!” Niall grinned wide at them. Harry didn’t return the expression. “Aw, sorry, did you two want some alone time? Myself and Payne here heard you guys making plans for this evening, so we thought we’d join. Shoot! Bad move?”

Harry turned to Liam. “Et tu, Brute?”

“I just came for those scones you guys made, to be honest. Sorry.” The scone in the hand that wasn’t holding a football provided evidence for this claim.

“Homophobes,” Harry muttered. Niall guffawed. Harry sighed. “Since we’re here.” He held his hands out for the ball, which Liam tossed to him, one-handed. Harry turned to Louis and raised a brow. “You up for it?”

“Not at all,” Louis said. He grinned. “Let’s go.”

It was dark by the time Niall and Liam finally left, and Louis glanced nervously after them, unsure of whether he should follow. He didn’t want to.

“If you have to get home…” Harry said, leaving the sentence hanging.

“Do you… want me to?”

“I’d like you to stay,” Harry said, all in a rush. “For a bit. If you can. If you’d like.”

“I’d like,” Louis said, taking Harry’s hand in his with a smile.

They went up to Harry’s room, and somehow it was like the whole day hadn’t happened, and their first kiss hadn’t happened, and everything was still up in the air, surrounded by unsaid questions and hesitant advances. They sat beside each other on the bed, both facing forward, like they were on a roller coaster. Harry turned, first his face, then his torso. He put a hand on Louis’s cheek, and he leaned in.

People called LA the city where it’s always summer. Louis thought maybe the same might be said of any city Harry called home. He tasted like the scones they’d been eating, and his plump lower lip was soft; Louis sucked on it and bit it until Harry pushed him back. He scooted up against his headboard, and Louis crawled up to join him. He tucked himself into Harry’s neck, kissing the skin there, feeling a warm happiness all throughout himself as Harry ran his fingers through his hair, sucking in a breath here and there, as Louis made him vulnerable. Finally he stopped kissing and sucking and just leaned his forehead on Harry’s shoulder, feeling. Feeling that if LA were to become Pompeii, now would be a good time for it happen. This would be a good moment to immortalize.

 

*

 

If you’d told Bebe a few months ago that one day soon she’d be making out with a cheerleader on the hood of her car, she’d have assumed you were joking. But life surprises you.

They’d driven down to Malibu, but it wasn’t really a beach day, so Clare’d taken them up one of those many winding hill roads, ’til they reached a good, parking-spot-sized lookout. They hadn’t stared out at the ocean for long before they turned toward each other instead.

They lay back and stared up at the sky. Clare held Bebe’s hand in both of hers, rubbing her fingers like she was mapping it for a 3D print. Bebe sighed. “Are you…”

Clare looked over at her when she didn’t finish the question. “Am I…?”

“Are you out? Like, at school? I kind of figured out your friends from outside school aren’t the straightest, so I assume they know—”

“You put that one together, did you?” Clare said, chuckling.

“Yeah.” Bebe closed her eyes. “But I wasn’t sure whether, like, the cheer squad… or anyone else… I mean. _I_ didn’t know.”

Clare’s brows shot up. “You didn’t?” Bebe shook her head, and Clare grinned. “That… explains a lot.” Bebe put her head in her hands, but Clare just laughed. “I’m out,” she said. “I don’t exactly shout it over the intercom every morning, or anything. But yeah. My friends know. Including the cheer squad.”

Bebe looked at her, then. “They’re cool about it?”

Clare shrugged. “For the most part. Some more than others. We mostly just don’t talk about it. But I haven’t really gotten bullied, much, if that’s what you’re asking. Not by them.”

The phrasing of this assurance was vaguely cryptic. It left Bebe feeling that slight nausea, like when you’ve eaten a lot or had too much to drink.

They were silent for a while. Kind of a long while— or maybe it just felt that way, because of everything going on in Bebe’s brain. She tried to focus on Clare’s hands. It wasn’t working.

“I don’t think… I want… to be out.”

Clare looked at her. Bebe stared straight up, unable to meet Clare’s gaze. Maybe this was a totally unnecessary conversation. Was it premature of her to assume she and Clare were even enough of a _thing_ to warrant discussing whether people could know about them? Still, she went on, “I don’t think I’m ready.”

Clare was quiet. When Bebe finally looked at her, she just looked confused. After a moment, Clare pushed up on her elbows. “I’m… lost.”

“What?” Bebe sat up all the way, arching one knee, resting her chin on it. Clare sat up to join her, crossing her legs, her cheer skirt pooled around her. Bebe tried not to be distracted by her legs.

Clare stared at her, her mouth kind of working, like she was trying to speak, but could’t find the right words. Finally she sputtered, “You-you’re… not out?”

Now Bebe’s eyebrows shot up.

“I’m sorry,” Clare said, “I don’t mean to— like— I genuinely thought— I mean, this whole time…”

Bebe was full-gaping at her now. Clare studied her face a moment before asking, “How long have you known you’re gay?”

Bebe blushed. “Like… a week?” She and Clare stared at each other. Then Clare finally broke, absolutely losing it, howling with laughter.

“I’m sorry— I’m so sorry—” she managed between laughter, “I’m not trying to laugh at your—at your sexual awakening— I just—” she sucked in a huge breath, trying to calm herself. “I can’t believe myself. My behavior the last few weeks— I _never_ would have acted like that if I’d known you—” She clapped her hands first over her mouth, then over her eyes, and let out a high-pitched shriek of mortification— or maybe delight.

Finally Clare dropped her hands, shaking her head and meeting Bebe’s stunned gaze. “I’m sorry. I thought you were out. I thought you were _gay_.”

“I _am_ gay.”

“Ok, yeah, but I thought you were like, a card-carrying, Patricia Higjsmith-reading, futch-identifying, _gay._ Like, in the theater program, saying eff you to high school gender roles from the get-go, taking up the legacy of Alison Bechdel. I thought you’d been out for years. You and Louis Tomlinson— I thought you were, like, our school’s resident Out and Prouds, our every month is pride month kids.”

“Louis’s not out either,” Bebe said. “He had his sexual awakening at about the same moment I did.” Bebe realized a moment too late that she’d outed her best friend, but seeing as he was her best friend, and Clare was maybe— hopefully, or soon-to-be— her girlfriend, Clare would’ve found out anyway, soon enough. Although apparently there wasn’t much _to_ find out.

Clare looked absolutely, bone-deep, blood-chillingly, floored. “I thought Harry and Liam and I were subtle compared to you guys,” Clare said. “I thought we were in like, a walk-in closet,with AC and dimming lights, while you guys were…” Finally she lay back against the car again. “I can’t believe this.”

Bebe, finally, laughed. “You know… that also… explains some things.”

“Yeah, you think?” Clare sat up again, then, and turned to Bebe, all the sudden serious-looking, concerned, even. “But wait. You were saying you’re not ready to be out.”

“Well… yeah,” Bebe looked down at her hands. She laughed. “Even thought apparently I already am, unbeknownst to me.”

“No, I don’t know if that’s true. I mean, I assumed, and some of my friends did, but I don’t know if everyone thinks that.”

Bebe met Clare’s gaze again. “I… understand if you don’t want to like… be sneaking around with me, or whatever. Even if you’re not _every month is pride month_ ,” she grinned, and Clare grinned back, “I get if you don’t want to be in like… a secret relationship.” She felt her cheeks go hot. “Or any relationship. I shouldn’t assume you want to date me just because we’ve kissed a few times. I’m sorry. I don’t even— I’m just like so—-”

“Bebe. Stop.”

Bebe stopped.

“I do want to be in a relationship. If you do.” Clare took Bebe’s hand again, and Bebe somehow felt herself go even redder in the face, nodding over-enthusiastically, embarrassed and pleased and anxious for what else Clare would say. “I also completely understand not wanting to be out,” Clare said. “ _I’m_ not even out to my family. I want to wait until I’m out of the house, and financially independent. You know. In case…” she trailed off. Bebe felt a painful tug in her chest, and nodded in understanding. She’d been avoiding the thought of telling her mom. She’d never been the anti-gay type, but she’d never spoken in support, either. Bebe had no idea how she would react, and she wasn’t exactly keen on finding out any time soon.

Clare released one hand from Bebe’s to cup her cheek. Bebe looked at her, all thoughts of her mom slipping away, her grip even on this conversation starting to get loose, as her eyes darted from Clare's eyes to her mouth and back again. She was everywhere longing, everywhere admiration, everywhere fondness. Clare rubbed her thumb on Bebe’s cheekbone, and Bebe let out a happy sigh.

“We don’t have to tell anyone if you don’t want to. If you don’t want to come out at all in high school, I understand. This is your thing, Bebe. Your journey. I’d never try to take that away from you.”

“But you don’t— just because you support me doing my thing, that doesn’t mean you…” Bebe trailed off. She could feel herself getting blubbery. Curse acting workshops and the way they forced her to be in touch with her emotions!

“I want you, Bebe,” Clare said. Bebe’s eyes widened as she watched Clare’s face heat up. She dropped her gaze. “I don’t care about the rest.”

Bebe leaned toward her, and they were kissing again. They discussed it further, and Bebe decided being out to the squad, and to Clare’s out-of-school friends, and to Harry and Louis and Liam, was Ok. But no one else. Not yet. Maybe not for a while. Then they kissed more, for good measure. And as they drove home, Clare held Bebe’s hand.

 

*

 

Being at a high school football game was just as weird the second time, but it was something else now, too. Louis felt a shivery thrill as he looked out on it all, the field, the people finding seats on the bleachers, the cheerleaders adjusting their uniforms. He spotted a girl in a short dress and knee high socks sitting a few rows ahead of him, with a letterman jacket draped over her shoulders, like she’d just come from Pop Tate’s, or, like Bebe, was prone to stealing clothes from the theater department. Normally Louis might’ve made a snarky comment about the antiquated mating rituals of high school, but looking at that girl just then, he felt a warm sense of camaraderie. Maybe next time, Harry’d lend Louis _his_ letterman jacket. Louis hated himself for how giddy the thought of it made him.

At the moment, he had his own, non-letterman jacket on the seat beside him, saving Bebe’s place as she stood at the bottom of the bleachers, hanging onto the chain-link fence, practically salivating as she watched Clare warm up. He was happy for, and embarrassed by her, but he wished she’d come up here already so he could put his jacket on. An evening breeze was passing by, and he was chilly.

When she finally joined him, Louis teased, “You know, for a girl who’s not ready to be out yet, you sure aren’t very subtle.”

Bebe’s cheeks went red, and she looked anxious. “Was I that obvious? Do you think people know?”

“Cool your jets,” Louis said. “No. You’re fine. Straight people never assume girls are into each other. Girls could make out in front of them and straight people would assume they’re just doing it for guys.” He smirked. “The cheer squad knows, though.”

Bebe laughed and buried her head in her hands. “You don’t have to tell me.” Sarah’d wolf-whistled Bebe the moment she approached them. Bebe’s odds of staying closeted for long with a gaggle of overly-supportive friends with literal pom-poms in hand following her and Clare everywhere they went didn’t seem promising. But then again, having an army of gymnasts on your side _should_ the whole school find out your sexuality seemed advantageous, to say the least.

Bebe’d told Louis all about her conversation with Clare about being out. He’d shrugged when she asked whether he’d had a similar one with Harry. He hadn’t, but it didn't really seem necessary. It was easy enough to gather, based on Harry’s closeness with Liam and Niall and relative distance from the rest of the team, as well as Harry’s wardrobe at versus outside of school, and the fact that before he’d known Louis was Team G, he’d taken down his rainbow flag when he came over— Harry wasn’t out. Not all the way. He didn’t seem ashamed of it, or worried about it. It seemed to Louis like maybe, to Harry, it was just private. Not the business of acquaintances, or people who he only saw every day because of compulsory education. That suited Louis fine. He didn’t want to worry about it. He didn’t want to be bothered by what anyone who didn’t matter to him might think. He wanted to stay in this little bubble with Harry, and kiss him on the cheek while Niall hooted in the backseat and Liam grumbled about being single. He wanted to go on double dates with Clare and Bebe. He was happy keeping what was his own among the people who were his own.

Bebe made fun of him for how loudly he cheered for Harry, and Louis made fun of her for the glazed-over look she got when Clare was cheering. “Sports players take ice baths, right? Maybe we should get you in one of those, Bebes.”

“You can run your mouth just as soon as you stop using phrases like _sports players_ , Tomlinson.”

“Oh, what, you’ve been gay two minutes and now you think you’re some kind of butch sports-expert?”

“It doesn’t take much to know more about sports than you, theater twink.”

They were still arguing when Harry and Clare met them by Clare’s car. Louis was quick to compliment her on it.

“Thanks,” she said, her eyes glinting. “Just glad to finally have a hot babe to show off in my hot rod.”

Harry whooped at that, and Bebe’s face went red as spilt wine on a white dress. Louis laughed at her.

Clare drove them to WeHo— it wasn’t a quick drive, but Harry insisted that it was of paramount importance that they go to a diner there. “They have _Carly Rae Jepsen_ in their _jukebox._ ” Clare seemed equally thrilled by the prospect, and neither Louis nor Bebe were wont to complain about time spent in a car with Harry and Clare.

In the tiny backseat, Harry and Louis would have been close together whether they liked it or not. Fortunately, Louis liked it. Harry did, too, if the smile that looked like it hurt which refused to leave his face was anything to go by. He massaged Louis’s thigh absently, humming along to the radio. Louis asked Bebe to roll her window down. He hoped the air would help fight off the arousal Harry’s massaging— and mere proximity— was quickly building.

At the diner, Harry ordered waffles and Louis ordered chocolate chip pancakes, but as soon as their food came, Harry started sending longing glances towards Louis’s food. With an exasperated, endeared laugh, Louis switches their plates. Harry protested, but Louis glanced around, remembered they were in WeHo, and kissed the boy silent. Clare wolf-whistled, and Harry ate his pancakes with a dopey grin on his face.

Clare and Harry jumped up when the song they’d paid for came on— a Carly song that Louis and Bebe did not know. Clare’d asked them earlier what Carly songs they _did_ know, and when they’d said “Call Me Maybe,” she’d looked like she might kick them out of her car.

Harry and Clare danced in the middle of the diner floor. Bebe sputtered with protests, and Louis glanced frantically around to search for annoyed waiters, but soon enough, a crowd gathered, all dancing, all singing along. Louis counted at least two waitresses among them. When Clare and Harry neared the table in their rounds, Bebe leaned over and shout-whispered, “Is this a gay thing?”

“Of course!” Clare full-shouted back. Bebe looked at Louis, who raised a brow back at her.

“I think we have a lot to learn,” Bebe said. Louis nodded in agreement.  
They drove to Harry’s. Harry told Clare to invite whoever she liked, and he texted Niall and Liam. Despite just having scourged themselves on diner food, the four of them stuffed their faces with random leftovers in Harry’s kitchen until others started to arrive. Clare’s very-obviously-gay friends were first. Harry leant them some of Gemma’s suits, and they all went out to the pool. Underwater lights lit up the water, and they sat around the outside, legs in the water, talking and drinking lemonade. Liam and Niall showed up already in trunks, and Niall threw his shirt at Harry’s face. Harry pushed him in the pool.

One of Clare’s friends found out Bebe and Louis were theater kids, and asked what play they were doing. Soon enough everyone was singing “Summer Nights,” and though it wasn’t actually summer, it felt absurdly appropriate.

Similarly to the diner, here, among a bunch of queer people and Niall (whose failed attempts at flirting had Louis and Liam cackling,) felt like a safe space. Louis lowered himself into the water, and then backed up so he was standing between Harry’s dangling legs. Harry looked down at him with a smile like a freshly baked cookie, soft and warm and irresistible. Louis arched up to kiss him, and even as Niall splashed them, the moment felt like a one-shot film, where everything has to, and has, worked out perfectly, so there are no interruptions, no take twos, nothing gone wrong. He and Harry were a time capsule, a memory in the present, a yearbook photo which makes your heart clench and ache for moments you loved, moments you miss. But no one was missing anything right then— they were living it, and it was so good.

Everyone but Clare, Bebe, Liam, and Niall left eventually, and the six of them grabbed an excessive number of huge blankets from Harry’s hall closet, which they carried with them into his home theater along with four packs of Oreos and a giant pitcher of hot chocolate (which they filled against Liam’s frantic protests that the hot liquid would crack the cool ceramic.) Harry and Clare literally screamed when they found out Bebe and Louis hadn’t seen _But I’m a Cheerleader_ , so Harry put that on, “to be followed by _Velvet Goldmine, Even Cowgirls Get the Blues,_ and _Love, Simon._ ”

“I’ve seen that!” Bebe chimed up.

“Yes, everyone has. We’re still watching it.”

“Tomorrow,” Clare said, turned around in her seat so she could talk to Harry as he put the movie on, “let’s watch _The Incredibly True Adventure of Two Girls in Love_ and _Alex Strangelove._ ”

“Oh! That’s that new Netflix movie, right?” Niall said.

“Yes,” Harry and Clare said at the same time. Then Harry added, “You have to let me add some art films, too.”

Niall and Liam groaned.

“Ok, just _Looking for Langston,_ then. For now.”

Finally, the room went quiet as the film started. The silence was only broken by laughter and Louis’s, “Is that RuPaul?!”

 

*

 

When Bebe was in middle school, she had a sleepover with girls she met in choir. They put on _Sleepover_ , and watched it while eating popcorn slathered in chocolate sauce and vanilla frosting. It wasn’t the first teen movie Bebe’d seen, and far from the last. But the feeling it gave her didn’t feel less odd because it had happened before. It was pure mystification. The way the _Spy Kids_ girl looked at that boy, the male love interest, and the way he looked back. Her friends sighed, smiling, longing, understanding. The only thing in that movie that Bebe sighed like that over was the bit where she skateboards in a dress.

Bebe understood, now, as she approached Clare’s room— having been let in by her mom— she felt that giddy contentment, that desire fulfilled.

She knocked once, briefly, and pushed Clare’s door open, already smiling.

Clare squeal-screamed and threw her duvet over herself, over her head. “FUCK.”

Bebe stood, frozen, gaping, her mind like a phone dropped in water, blinking and failing to reawaken. Finally, she spun around.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, trying not to voice any of the screaming or swearing currently going down in her brain, “I’m so sorry, I should have knocked— waited— I’m gonna go, I’m so so sorry—”

“Don’t go!” Clare hurried out, her voice high-pitched, “My mom will ask why you’re leaving so soon.”

Bebe deliberated on that for a moment before nodding, taking a step backwards, and closing the door in front of her, with herself in Clare’s room.

Clare was masturbating. She just walked in on Clare masturbating.

It wasn’t like Bebe hadn’t masturbated herself, hadn’t known this was a common human action that people did often. But it had never even crossed her mind that Clare— and to find her like that— she felt like every part of her was blushing. Her legs, her eyelids, her chest. Everything was hot and red.

She could only imagine how Clare must be feeling.

“I’m so sorry,” she said again. Clare didn’t say anything. After a moment, Bebe went on, “Can I… turn around?” Clare made a guttural sound of permission.

Bebe turned, seeing Clare where she sat with her covers over her bent knees, her face buried between them. Bebe approached cautiously, and sat on the edge of the bed.

“This is so fucking embarrassing,” Clare said. “You’re just… you’re probably so grossed out right now.”

That left Bebe speechless for a moment. “Um,” she said, “no.”

Clare looked up at her, looking like she might cry, and her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean _no_?”

“No, I mean—” Bebe squeezed her eyes shut. “Shit. I’m sorry. I know you’re embarrassed. I’m a complete thoughtless moron and I should’ve knocked.”

“It’s fine—”

“But I’m not _grossed out_ ,” Bebe said, her eyes widening in disbelief. “Holy shit. I can’t believe you’d even think that.”

Clare’s brows furrowed further.

Bebe dropped her head, smacking a hand over her eyes with a _thwack_ ing that sounded like a cartoon. “I’m sorry, this is so inappropriate, I know you’re embarrassed right now and probably wish I would evaporate but like— you’re— you’re so hot.”

When Clare was silent, Bebe chanced a humiliated glance her way. Clare’s cheeks were red as overripe strawberries, but she didn’t look quite so embarrassed anymore. She looked kind of flustered.

“You… that…” Clare bit her lower lip, and that feeling that had taken years for Bebe to realize wasn’t a need to pee was more intense than it had been maybe ever before. Clare whispered, “Did that turn you on?”

The noise Bebe made was answer enough. Clare’s answering expression— one of surprise, one of pleasure— knocked Bebe over the edge.

She scooted up the bed until she was next to Clare. Clare stared at her, her eyes wide, her lips parted, and again, it occurred to Bebe how much she didn’t feel new to this, next to Clare. She didn’t feel like a fumbling amateur missing baskets or falling on her backside. She felt nervous, but like a natural. An Olympian about to dive. Tense, knowing how high the stakes were, but ready. Prepared.

“Can I touch you?” she whispered.

Clare carefully kicked her bed covers off her knees. She was wearing a loose skirt, but Bebe spotted her underwear tangled in her sheets. Clare nodded.

Bebe leaned down, and kissed Clare as she slid a hand up under her skirt.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> last chapter!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: brief depiction of a minor panic attack/episode

Louis’d hardly had time to even text Harry the last few days, what with dress rehearsal and the general chaos surrounding the approach of opening night. The forced distance from his boyfriend— his _boyfriend—_ was filling him with a disdain for the art of theater that he’d never thought himself capable of feeling. A large part of him wanted to drop out of the play so he and Harry could make out in his car.

Bebe seemed slightly less bitter, but Bebe also wasn’t one of the two leads, and every time he glanced offstage to see her smiling at her phone, he shot her dagger eyes which she only rarely looked up in time to catch.

“ _Louis_ ,” Ms. Lonsdale said for the third time that hour, “ _focus!_ ”

Louis felt like dropping dead from exhaustion when he and Bebe approached their bikes with heavy footfalls, using their phone flashlights to navigate the school parking lot in the dark.

“Maybe we should just get a Lyft,” Bebe said. “I feel like we’re begging to be murdered.”

Louis hardly heard her, finally texting Harry after hours away from his phone.

_sorry!!! just got out of practice_

_its almost midnight! there oughta b a law_

“Louis,” Bebe said, seemingly not for the first time.

“What? Oh. Hm. Yeah.”

_do you need a ride?? its late, and u biked, right?_

“Harry’s offering to pick us up.”

“Oh, brilliant.”

“I don’t know, it’s kind of out of his way.”

“ _Louis._ ”

“Fine! Fine.”

The night air was chilly but not freezing. Still, Louis gathered his jacket close around his shoulders as they waited, watching for Harry’s Range Rover to appear.

“Clare and I had sex,” Bebe said. Louis gaped at her. “Or at least I think we did. I’m not really sure what counts as sex?” She snapped closed her Pink Ladies jacket. “Like, a lot of straight people only call, like, penis-vagina-penetration-sex _sex_. I’m not sure where the line is for people who both have vaginas.”

Louis pushed past his shock to say, “I think it’s whatever you think it is.”

“Yeah,” Bebe said, nodding. “Yeah. So Clare and I had sex.”

“How was it?” Louis asked, because he wasn’t sure whether _congratulations_ or _good for you_ was appropriate here.

“Like… Ok, like, I don’t want to like, oversell it, or anything, because you know some people literally talk about sex like it’s like, the only thing worth living for— and literally just like, _talking_ to Clare is so— just so—” she cut herself off, smiling so wide it was like she couldn’t talk through it. “But it was… Louis, seriously, it was…”

When she didn’t finish the sentence, Louis looked over at her. She was just smiling, this soft, happy smile that was stunning in its honesty, its unfiltered depth of feeling. Louis felt a tightening in his chest, and a nervousness. He wanted to make Harry smile like that.

He did. He wanted that so much. And he wanted to touch Harry, and to be touched by Harry. His sheets lately made that clear enough.

But as bitter as he’d been having to be away from Harry so much this week, he was also somewhat relieved. So far everything they’d done together had been fairly PG. He wanted more— his body wanted more. But his mind hadn’t quite caught up.

He couldn’t wrap his head around what it was about it. His mom had always been sex positive, to an alarming, embarrassing degree. For his fifteenth birthday she’d gotten him a subscription to an ethical porn site. (Which he’d used begrudgingly, always comforting himself with the thought that if this was the 70s, he’d be masturbating to whatever porno mags he found under his mom’s bed— so at least, though his mom was paying for this porn, they weren’t sharing.) Sex had never scared him, though it had also never seemed to be in his near future— the reasons for that were embarrassingly obvious now. As _But I’m a Cheerleader_ so eloquently put it, it’s easy to be a prude when you’re not attracted to the person you’re dating.

But Harry wasn’t the few, brief girlfriends Louis’d had. He was so attracted to Harry sometimes it felt like he could finish himself off just thinking about him, untouched, like some people with vaginas can.

Yet the thought of actually doing anything with Harry, right then, was like the worst stage fright of his life.

Harry pulled up, finally, and Louis dropped his train of thought to smile and kiss his boyfriend.

They dropped Bebe off first, and were starting for Louis’s when his phone buzzed. Louis’s brow furrowed, and Harry glanced at him.

“What’s up?”

“Crap,” Louis said.

“What?”

“My sister’s texting me. The twins— the older twins— are sick, they caught something at school. Lottie’s saying if I come home I might jeopardize my ability to be in the play tomorrow night.”

“Shit,” Harry said.

“Yeah.”

They were at a red light. Louis stared at his phone and then at the road in front of him, where the streetlights were like the sparse LA stars. He was panicking, but he was also at such a loss over what to do that he felt kind of calm, like when an earthquake shook his room, like the situation was out of his hands.

“Hm,” Harry said, and Louis looked over at him. “Um… you… could… come to my place?”

“Uh,” Louis said, furrowing his brow, “it’s kind of late…”

“No, I mean, you could sleep over. Spend the night at my place. I could take you to school tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Louis said, somewhat stunned at the proposition. He didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to him, but he didn’t think it would have even if Harry hadn’t suggested it.

It made sense. But it also felt terrifyingly related to the earlier topic-of-panic of this evening, and, despite himself, his gaze dropped to Harry’s crotch for a split second before he hurriedly looked back at the road, glad for the dark hiding his blush.

“Would that be Ok?” Louis asked, hearing his own voice catch and trying to clear his throat imperceptibly. “Would your mom mind?”

“‘Course not. We’ll just put you in one of the guest rooms, or Gemma’s if you prefer.”

 _One of_ the guest rooms. Some people were just _so_ rich.

“Guest’s fine,” Louis said. “Thank you so much, Harry. You’re saving my life here.”

“Anything for you, Lou,” Harry said, sending him a smile that made Louis’s stomach turn in on itself.

The house was quiet when Harry closed the door behind them, and Louis felt nerves like digestion, working hard in his stomach. Harry led him to his room to lend him pajamas, and Louis followed him hesitantly, quietly, to a guest room. Harry turned at the door, smiling at him and then leaning down. He wrapped his hand around the back of Louis’s neck, and they kissed slowly, luxuriously, like you might walk through an art gallery. Louis let out a little sigh when Harry pulled away, and Harry smiled at him again before walking off, his socked feet quiet as he padded down the hall.

Louis set his backpack down on the king bed, taking in the guest room. It was as fairytale-like as the rest of the house, the bed frame made to look like wild tree branches growing out of the wall, a beautiful landscape painting on one wall and a gilded mirror on another, an elegant rocking chair beside the door. Louis sighed and changed into his pajamas. He could see himself in the mirror, siting on the bed, and he stared at himself for a while— Harry’s shirt was too big for him, and he’d had to pull the drawstrings of his flannel bottoms tight around his waist to keep them from falling. He looked tiny, and in the setting, he felt like a child— Hansel, Jack, Goldilocks, take your pick. It pissed him off a bit, and made the anxious hand clenching around his heart tighten all the more, as an insistent voice in his head asked him what he, nearly an adult, was doing— hiding here, like a child, instead of walking down the hall, where he could easily be having sex with his boyfriend right now. Like an adult would.

He brushed his hair out of his eyes and straightened his back, steeling himself. Finally, he stood, breaking eye contact with himself, and headed toward the door. He hesitated only a moment with his hand on the knob, and then walked to Harry’s room.

Harry opened the door after Louis’s second knock, looking puzzled, clearly in the midst of changing, wearing rose-patterned pajama pants, his shirt in his hand. All the better, Louis thought, even as the hand around his heart squeezed so tight he thought it might burst.

Louis arched up on his toes, pulling Harry down to himself, and he kissed him fiercely. Harry made a noise of surprise, but quickly showed his approval of this development, gladly helping Louis as he attempted to wrap a leg around Harry’s waist. Harry hoisted him up, just holding him there for a moment, kissing him with his feet off the ground, and for a moment the hand loosened, and Louis felt exhilarated, and hot, and _very_ aware that _Harry_ was hot. Then Harry brought him over to, and put him down on, the bed, and Louis’s brief moment of pure enjoyment died, his rapid breathing, as Harry crawled up over him, grinning, not the panting of arousal, but something else.

Harry started to lean down to kiss Louis again, but paused. Louis screwed his eyes shut, unable to calm his breathing, which was too fast now to be mistaken for excitement. “Lou?” Harry said, his voice quiet, and the hand that had been on Louis’s waist slid up to rest on his chest, as if to feel his heartbeat, or try to slow it down. “Are you… all right?”

“Sorry,” Louis said. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize!” Harry said, sounding worried, and Louis screwed his eyes up all the more tightly.

“This doesn’t… happen a lot,” Louis managed, between gasps.

“Is there something I can do?”

“Can—you— get off me?”

“Oh, geez, of course, sorry, shit,” Harry hurried out, scrambling to get off, and away from, Louis. When Louis opened his eyes, Harry was just sitting there, his legs crossed under him, wringing his hands. Louis put his palms over his eyes, and groaned through his rapid breathing. “I’m so—- _fucking_ —”

“No,” Harry said, though Louis hadn’t even said anything. “No, Louis, don’t. You’re not.”

When Louis had finally calmed down, what felt like ages later, he sat up and turned away from Harry, pulling his knees up into his chest.

“Louis…”

“I didn’t even have to come in here,” Louis said, a rage-induced self-loathing clawing him from inside his pajamas, the big bad wolf having eaten him alive. “This didn’t have to happen. I don’t know why I… and now you probably don’t like me anymore. I’m _so_ —”

“Can I touch you now?” Harry asked.

Louis flinched. Did Harry still want to…? “I don’t… think I’m up for…”

“No, I meant… can I hold your hand?” Harry moved to sit beside him, space between them.

Louis looked over at him. He nodded.

Harry took his hand, and they sat like that for a while, quiet.

So maybe Harry hadn’t been scared off by that. But…

“I don’t want to have sex,” Louis said. Harry laughed, a short, startled sound, and Louis winced.

“Sorry,” Harry said. “I’m not laughing _at_ you. Just— you surprised me.”

“Ok,” Louis said, not sure how to respond to that. Harry hadn’t addressed what he’d said.

“I wasn’t trying to have sex,” Harry said, hesitantly.

“I know, I initiated it, but—”

“No, I mean, I really wasn’t,” Harry said. He laughed nervously. “I don’t… think I’m ready for that.”

“Oh,” Louis said. “Ok.” He paused a long moment. “So… what… were you…”

“I don’t know, I figured we’d make out? Maybe fool around a little bit? But that’s all, Lou, seriously.”

“I’m not sure I even want to fool around, yet,” Louis said quietly. “Maybe not for a long time.”

“That’s OK,” Harry said. He squeezed Louis’s hand, and Louis looked at him. “This is good for me,” Harry said, holding up Louis’s hand. “Is it good for you?”

Louis laughed, smiled, and nodded.

Harry tilted his head, pursing his lips in thought. “Can we cuddle though?”

“Ugh,” Louis said, trying not to grin, “if we must.”

Louis fell asleep with Harry wrapped around him, and woke up wrapped around Harry. Even the shrillness of Harry’s alarm couldn’t wipe the smile from his face.

 

*

 

Clare was waiting with flowers when Bebe finally escaped backstage after the show. She almost would have forgotten her own qualms about coming out and planted one on her right there if her mom hadn’t been standing beside Clare, holding a bouquet of her own. Bebe went to her mom first, after a moment of hesitation.

“Mom, thank you. You didn’t have to do this.”

“You were great, honey,” her mom said awkwardly, like it was embarrassing to pay your daughter a compliment in front of so many people. Bebe took the flowers and turned to Clare, who beamed at her like LED headlights.

They hugged, and Bebe buzzed with it as she accepted the second bouquet. “Thank you,” she said. “Mom, you remember Clare.”

“Yes!” Bebe’s mom gave Clare a smile like _she_ was the one who’d just been in a play. “Wonderful to see you again. How’s cheerleading?”

“Um, it’s good!”

Harry popped up beside Clare then, like a Jack-in-the-box. “Bebe!” he said. “You were wonderful!”

Bebe grinned wide at her best friend’s boyfriend— the boy she’d thought she wanted, the boy she was so happy she didn’t get. “Thanks, Harry.”

When Louis came out, Bebe said goodbye to her mom and followed the group to Harry’s car, which took them to a party at Niall Horan’s. Louis and her agreed not to stay out too late, so they wouldn’t be exhausted for the next day’s early afternoon show.

Niall’s backyard was done up with what seemed like thousands of strings of white Christmas lights, sparkling down on them like the nighty sky had fallen to rest just out of reach. The party was filled with tons of their classmates, so Bebe kept her hands in her pockets, sidling herself beside Louis, trying not to stare longingly at Clare.

“Styles!” They all turned as a burly guy with a name like Cory or Cord or Coby, who Bebe had a vague idea was on the football team, walked over to them. He clapped a hand on Harry’s back and gave him a wide, beer-scented grin. “Look who’s come out of his cage. Good to see you out, man. You hiding some school reading in your back pocket, or you actually considering having a good time tonight?”

“Good to see you, too, Haverforth. I’ll tell you what’s it in my back pocket if you’ll tell me what’s in your front.”

Haverforth let out a huge bark of a laugh. “You making a pass at me, Styles?”

“Not at you, butterfingers.”

Haverforth laughed again. “You guys are empty-handed. Come on over, drinks on me,” and he grinned over his shoulder as he led them to the keg.

“Louis!” Niall smiled wide when he spotted the shorter boy. “Excellent performance tonight! You’ll have an EGOT in no time, mark my words.”

“You were there?” Louis asked, brows arched.

“‘Course I was! Lima too. You can count on us to be dragged to each and every performance by this one,” and he smacked his shoulder against Harry’s, making him jostle and spill the cup he was filling. Harry sent him a little glare, and Niall smirked in return before looking over at Bebe. “Oh! Hey! You were great, too! Really bought the pregnancy scare. Moving stuff.”

“Thanks,” Bebe said. “It’s a relatable panic for me.”

Niall cracked up at that. Clare’s smile was smug.

Bebe and Louis turned down drinks for the sake of the next day’s performances, and Harry and Clare turned them down, too, in solidarity. They stood in a little bundle for a while, talking amongst themselves, until Clare pulled on Bebe’s hand, entreating her to follow her to the bathroom.

Clare pulled Bebe in after her when she found said bathroom, and Bebe raised a brow. Clare pulled clean towels out of a cupboard and lined the bathtub, settling in and waving for Bebe to join her. Bebe grinned and did so.

They sat with their legs bent over the side of the tub, not quite kissing, but their mouths all over each other’s necks, and cheeks, and ears. Clare sucked down on Bebe’s earlobe and ran a hand lightly over Bebe’s thigh. Bebe shuddered and let her eyelids flutter closed.

Clare dug her fingers into Bebe’s leg like she was holding on for dear life. Bebe remembered being in the locker rooms in middle school, a gaggle of skinny girls all bouncing their legs off the side of the benches, loudly complaining about the fat on their legs, and how they hated the way it jiggled. Bebe’d never hated her thick thighs, or the bounce of them. Clare jiggled the fat on Bebe’s leg in her hand and made a guttural noise that suggested she didn’t hate it either.

They found Harry and Louis again when they finally left the bathroom; the boys were facing each other in a corner, totally conspicuous, talking quietly with drinks in hand.

“I thought we weren’t drinking,” Bebe said.

“Lemonade,” Louis said. Bebe finished off his cup.

“We should get going,” she said.

“Can I stay at yours tonight?” Louis asked. “The twins are probably still contagious.”

“‘Course,” Bebe said. “We can watch _Grease._ ”

“You’re an idiot.”

Harry dropped Clare off first. She leaned over to Bebe and kissed her hard, smiling and licking her lips as she pulled away. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Bebe said, totally incapable of playing down the ferocity of her emotions. Clare grinned and walked off, waving as she went.

Harry pulled up in front of Bebe’s then, and Bebe bade him good night before waiting outside as Harry and Louis “said” good night. Louis waved at Harry again before turning with Bebe toward her door. Inside, she poured them two tall glasses of peach iced tea and plopped in heart-shaped ice cubes, splashing herself and swearing under her breath.

“Everyone knows you're supposed to put the cubes in _before_ the drink, you dolt.”

“I’ll just have two glasses for myself, then, how’s that?”

Louis grabbed his glass before she could, and grinned as he took a sip.

They settled on the couch, debating for a while whether _Roxanne_ or the 1990 _Cyrano de Bergerac_ was better.

“Do you think Harry has a gay Cyrano somewhere?” Louis asked.

“Oh, I’m sure.”

“That’s probably the best version then.”

“Would you rather play Cyrano, or Christian?” Bebe asked, finishing off her iced tea and leaning her head back against the arm of the couch.

“Roxane,” Louis said.

“Of course.”

“Do you think it would work?” Louis asked. “In real life?”

Bebe shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. She raised her head to grin at him. “These things never do seem to go to plan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!!! I hope you enjoyed! kudos/comments are highly appreciated <3
> 
>  
> 
> I'm shesarealphony on tumblr, feel free to say hi!


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